Ritual in the Dark (5 page)

No, I’d better go. Why are you smiling?

You’re like a jack-in-the-box, Sorme said. Why don’t you sit still for a while?

This was not the real reason Sorme was smiling. He had thought: He has taken it personally. Everything is personal for them. But he was glad Nunne was leaving.

Bye-bye, Gerard.

Where will you go?

Nunne shrugged:

Home, perhaps. Or a club I know in Paddington. Bye-bye.

Goodbye, Austin. Thanks for the evening.

Don’t come down, Nunne said.

He went out quickly, closing the door behind him. Sorme stood there, until he heard the front door slam. His landlady immediately called: Who’s there? He said angrily to the door: Oh, drop dead! The car door slammed. He looked out of the window, in time to see the rear light disappearing into the darkness.

He emptied the rest of his beer into the sink, and washed the two glasses, then systematically washed the rest of the crockery on the table. When he had told Nunne he wanted to finish packing he had been sincere; but now he felt sleepy and drunk. The room was hot and stuffy. He turned the gas fire off, and opened a window. Before undressing, he swallowed three dyspepsia tablets with a glass of milk. The sheets felt pleasantly cool. He yawned in the dark, and stretched in the bed, experiencing intense sensual satisfaction from the contact of the sheets. He thought of Nunne flying to Switzerland, and felt a faint envy, which he immediately suppressed. Sleep came quickly and easily.

CHAPTER TWO

HE LIKED the new room. When the boxes had been unpacked, and the radio and record player were arranged on the chest of drawers, it seemed smaller than he had anticipated. A fire escape ran past the window, which looked out on a piece of waste ground and on a church. He had also the use of a small kitchen that was probably a converted lumber-room. It was reached by a narrow flight of stairs opposite his door: he was to share this with a Frenchman who lived in the next room.

The move exhausted him. He had awakened without a hangover, but feeling tired and dry-mouthed. When he had finished arranging the room, he felt the sweat running down his sides and along his thighs. He set a kettle to boil on the gas ring; he could hear the thump of his heart, and the roar of the traffic in the Kentish Town Road. The bed stood under the open window; the breeze cooled him. He fell into a doze, and was awakened suddenly by the whistle on the kettle.

He made tea in a two-pint thermos flask, and poured it out through a strainer. He put a record on the gramophone, then sat down at the table, staring at the glowing nipples of the gas fire, sipping the tea. Someone tapped on the door; he called: Come in.

The man who opened the door said: I hear we are to be neighbours and share the kitchen.

Come in, Sorme said. Would you like a cup of tea?

Thank you, I would.

The French accent was not strong, but quite perceptible. Sorme stood up, holding out his hand.

My name’s Gerard Sorme.

Edmond Callet. How do you do?

Do you mind sterilised milk in your tea?

Not at all.

He took the whisky-cap off the sterilised milk bottle that he had brought from Colindale; the milk was three days old. He turned down the volume of the gramophone. The Frenchman asked: What is it? Prokoviev?

Yes, the fifth symphony. Do you like music?

Very much. I used to play the oboe in the orchestra in my home town. Lille.

But you’re not a professional musician?

Oh no. I’m an engineer.

When he smiled, he showed a mouthful of regular, white teeth. He had a handsome face, with a square, powerful jaw. Sorme found himself liking him instantly. Callet sat opposite him, in the armchair.

I hear you’re a writer?

Yes. Who told you that?

Carlotte. The girl who cleans up. We have some strange tenants in this house. You have the worst one above you.

The worst? Why?

He’s mad. And he plays gramophone records all night.

Christ! Does he thump around, though?

No, I don’t think so. He just plays records. You won’t see him during the day. He sleeps.

That’s all right. I sometimes work most of the night too. Do you object to the noise of a typewriter?

No. I use one myself. The only person who might complain is the girl in the room underneath.

I see. And who else qualifies as ‘strange’?

The Frenchman made a puzzled grimace. Sorme explained:

You said there were several strange tenants?

Ah, yes. Well the old man above you is the worst. There are two homosexuals who live on the ground floor. They won’t bother you. They sometimes quarrel all night. They are all right except when they are drunk. Then they get noisy.

Doesn’t the landlady object?

No. She doesn’t live here. The German girl is supposed to keep an eye on the place. Carlotte. She lives in the basement.

The record came to an end. Sorme turned the player off. Immediately, they heard the sound of someone knocking on the door of the next room. The Frenchman opened the door, saying: Hello?

Phone for Monsieur Callet, a girl’s voice said.

I’ll probably see you later. Thanks for the tea.

You’re welcome, Sorme said.

He poured himself a second cup of tea, and switched on the record player again. The heat was making him drowsy. To wake himself up, he began to rearrange his books in the bookcase behind the door. He flattened the three cardboard cartons that the books had been packed in, and heaved them on top of the wardrobe. They met some obstruction and slid down again. He climbed on to a chair, and looked on the wardrobe. There was a pile of books there, pushed to the back against the wall. There were four tattered copies of P. G. Wodehouse, and three volumes in the Notable British Trials Series. One of these had a label inside: Erith Public Libraries. The date stamped inside seemed to be several years earlier.

He lifted them down, blowing the dust off them, then sat down at the table to examine them. A quarter of an hour later he was still reading the first volume he had opened, The Trial of Burke and Hare. It made him feel slightly sick.

Someone knocked on the door. He called: Hello.

The Frenchman looked round the door.

Hello. Lotte asked me to give you a message. Someone phoned for you this morning.

Oh? Did he leave a message?

Yes. She didn’t get his name, but he left a telephone number. Here it is.

Sorme took the torn envelope flap. He said:

Thanks. I’ll ring him now. Where’s the phone?

Unfortunately, he left a message asking you to ring him before three. He said he was leaving London at three.

Sorme looked at his watch. It said half past four.

Oh. . . thanks anyway.

The Frenchman asked conversationally: What are you reading?

Oh, a book on murders.

Did you read about that murder last night?

No.

In Whitechapel. Another girl found beaten to death. It was in the midday paper. Do you want to see it?

Sorme said, chuckling: Don’t bother. I intend to eat a meal today. This stuff makes me feel sick.

When the door closed again he tossed The Trial of Burke and Hare on to the bed, and opened one of the Wodehouse volumes.

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In the night, he woke up and remembered Nunne’s aunt. Until then he had completely forgotten about her. He reached for his trousers, and felt in the dark for the back pocket. The sheet of notepaper was still there. He struck a match, and read: Gertrude Quincey, The Laurels, Vale of Health, followed by her phone number. He propped it on the chair beside the bed to remind him to phone her in the morning, and lay down again, in the night that now smelt of burnt sulphur, and thought about her. Her figure was slim and attractive; there was something demure about her manner that he found exciting. She was probably fifteen years his senior; perhaps less; perhaps only ten. He speculated idly on the advantages of persuading her to become his mistress, even of marrying her. It would be pleasant to be looked after. But in ten years’ time, in fifteen? There was also this business of her being a Jehovah’s Witness. Somehow, that did not fit in. He thought of Jehovah’s Witnesses as rather slovenly-dressed working-class women.

It would be interesting to find out how serious she was about the Bible classes. Or if her convictions made chastity obligatory.

He knew, with sudden certainty, that there could never be any question of wanting to marry her. It would be a sell-out. There was an intuition of certainty in him that told him that a sell-out for security could never be necessary. He thought instead of making love to her. The idea carried him into sleep.

The following evening he tried phoning her; there was no reply. He depressed the receiver-rest and rang Austin’s number; a girl on the switchboard told him that Mr Nunne had gone away for a few days. He returned to his room, feeling curiously disappointed.

Half an hour later he was reading when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs to the old man’s room. Someone knocked on the door. A girl’s voice called: Mr Hamilton! There was no reply. The footsteps came down the stairs again. Someone rapped on his door. He called: Come in.

The girl who stood in the doorway said:

I’m sorry to disturb you. . .

He said: You’re Carlotte?

Yes. There is a policeman at the front door. . .

To see me?

O no! He says someone has thrown a bottle into the street. I think it must be Mr Hamilton. But he won’t answer the door. What shall I do?

What makes you think it’s him?

It must be. Monsieur Callet is out. Who else could it be?

What do you want me to do?

Could you—go up by the fire escape? He may answer you.

Where’s the policeman?

Downstairs.

He climbed out of the window on to the fire escape. A shaft of light came from the open door above.

In the room, the old man squatted on the floor, his back to the door, naked. The choir sang:

Stella matutina

Salus infirmorum

Refugium peccatorum. . .

He stood there, uncertain, wondering whether to return quietly to his own room. When the record stopped, he coughed and knocked on the door. He expected the old man to turn, or start guiltily. Nothing happened. The old man took off the record and selected another from the pile in front of him. Sorme said:

Excuse me. . .

The old man said over his shoulder:

Come in. Don’t stand there.

Sorme advanced into the room.

I’m sorry to trouble you, but there’s a policeman down below enquiring about a bottle that somebody threw into the street.

As he spoke, he saw the window was open: it overlooked the street.

The old man said: You are German, are you not?

No, English. So would you mind. . . ?

Yes, all right, all right. Do you like the Roman litany?

He felt irritated and helpless. The old man had a bottle between his knees, with a glass inverted over the neck. The gramophone was a big wooden box; the circle of green baize was loose on the turntable; the wires ran across the room to a radio on the bookshelf. He felt chilled in the draught that blew across the room, and noticed with surprise that the old man was sweating.

I only came to tell you that the policeman seems pretty annoyed. Throwing bottles out of windows causes a lot of trouble. . .

Tell me, my young friend, do you believe in mortification of the flesh?

He felt suddenly violently angry, and would have enjoyed snatching up the gramophone and smashing it on the perspiring bald head. It was a feeling that he was somehow the victim of a drunk old man. He crossed the room to the door and tried it; it had been locked and the key removed.

The old man said thickly: Sit down and have a drink. What part of Germany do you come from?

Sorme turned round, and was suddenly shocked and repelled by the blotchy nakedness; a tainted spittle of disgust rose in his throat. The old man poured gin into the tumbler, and then inverted the glass over the neck of the bottle again. He shook the bottle so that the glass clinked, and smiled:

You can’t get out that way.

He flung out his right arm, pointing; Sorme followed the direction of his finger to a wall cupboard. The door stood open.

Do you know what this is, my young friend, my little German friend?

No.

‘S a map, isn’t it? A map. But do you know what it is?

There was a map pinned to the inside of the door; it seemed to be drawn in ink.

Of course you don’ know. An’ I’m hot goin’ a tell you. . . It’s my secret. . .

He crossed the room quickly and went out of the fire door again. The old man called: Hi, wait a minute! Sorme went down the fire escape and climbed back into his own room.

Well? the girl said.

It’s no good; he’s drunk. You’ll have to tell the policeman it won’t happen again. He’s too drunk to listen.

She turned and left the room without speaking. He closed the window and knelt by the gas fire, warming his hands. From somewhere downstairs he could hear a deep male voice speaking. The gramophone above was playing again. He was puzzled by the violence of the killing instinct that the old man had aroused in him. Even now, it would have given him pleasure to stand in the doorway and empty a revolver into the repulsive nakedness. The strength of his own hatred surprised him.

His hands were grimy, from touching the rail of the fire escape. He washed them in the kitchen, gradually relaxing as he leaned over the sink, his hands in the warm water. When he came down again the girl was waiting in his room. She stared back from the bookcase as he came in:

Oh—I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind me coming in. . .

Not at all. What happened?

He says he will have to report it. That’s all.

Will you have a glass of wine?

She looked as if about to refuse. He took the bottle out of the cupboard, saying: I’m having one.

Please. Just a little, then.

It was the bottle he had opened the day before and was still nearly full. He poured wine into a tumbler and handed it to her.