Ritual in the Dark (9 page)

I’m sorry. . . Sorme began.

Maunsell said: Is he awake?

Yes. He says he can see people for the next hour.

You’d better go up, Gerard. We can have a talk afterwards.

The priest smiled, nodded at them, and went out. Sorme called: Thank you.

You are silly, Gerard. Why didn’t you wait for me?

Sorry. I didn’t realise he’d arrange it so quickly.

Oh, never mind. You’d better go up now.

I can drink my tea here, can’t I?

No, you hadn’t better. Take it up with you. Come on. I’ll show you the way.

Sorme followed him up the thickly carpeted stairs. On the first landing, a blue plaster madonna stood in a niche, her hands raised in blessing. Maunsell knocked gently on the door at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open and allowed Sorme to pass in.

This is Gerard Sorme, father. He’s a friend of Mrs Nunne.

The priest was sitting up in bed, surrounded by white pillows. He wore a nightgown of some coarse blue material. Maunsell closed the door, and left them alone together.

Not Mrs Nunne, Sorme said. Her son.

Ah, Austin. I haven’t seen him for a long time. How is he? Do sit down.

His face struck Sorme as one of the ugliest he had ever seen; without actually being deformed, it was crudely and gratuitously ugly, with the strong lines of a gargoyle. The jaw was too big; it would have had the effect of overbalancing the face if it had not been for the forehead, which also jutted, and had a sharp, vertical crease down the middle, as if someone had hit him with a crowbar. The large nose was slightly flattened; the mouth was wide, and spread across the face like a fissure. The eyes were small, almost colourless. If a lamp had been suspended overhead, they would have disappeared completely in the shadow of his brows. Sorme tried hard to remember where he had seen the face before, or where he had seen one like it. Then he remembered: the bust of Charley Peace in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. The thought made him smile. The priest smiled back friendlily. He seated himself in the armchair near the fire, saying:

Austin’s fine, father. He suggested that I should come and see you.

What did you say your name was?

Sorme, father, Gerard Sorme.

Sorme? Sorme. . . I know the name. It’s a rare name, isn’t it?

I’ve never met anyone else with it, outside my family. . .

The priest held up his hand to silence him. The furrow in the brow might have been an incision. For a few seconds, he frowned, concentrating.

Ah, I remember! Father Grey of Campion House. Did you ever know him, by any chance?

Sorme felt unaccountably guilty; he said:

Yes, I did. He instructed me once.

Good! the priest said. He was smiling happily again. I don’t often forget a name. Yes. . . Father Grey talked to me about you once. Why did you give up instruction?

I.
         
. . I. . . I didn’t get on with Father Grey to begin with.

Why not?

He seemed to want to convince me that Catholics were decent blokes after all. You know the sort of thing? Beef-eating, beer-drinking RAF padre style. And he had no time for mysticism. He spent three instruction periods convincing me that St Peter was really the first Pope. I got fed-up.

The priest said sympathetically:

I understand. Father Grey isn’t everyone’s idea of a Catholic. . . which is no doubt just as well.

Sorme grinned, waiting. The pale, blue-grey eyes contemplated him steadily. The priest said, smiling:

Well, you keep coming back, don’t you? Why?

Sorme frowned, shrugging. It was difficult to find an answer. The soft voice pressed him:

Do you think you’ll become a Catholic one of these days?

I may, I suppose.

But do you expect to?

No, not really, father. I don’t mean it’s impossible. . .

Quite. But have you no idea what you’re looking for?

No, father, not really.

None at all?

Well, I suppose I have some idea. . .

Can you tell me?

Well. . . I suppose I hope to find somebody I can talk to.

What about?

I shan’t know until I find somebody I can talk to.

He felt the answer was silly, and was irritated with himself. The priest’s eyes rested on him calmly, as if completing an examination whose last stages consisted simply in looking at Sorme. He felt a desire to get up and go away. The priest asked suddenly:

Do you know Austin well?

Not well. I met him for the first time on Friday. I haven’t seen him since.

How did you meet him?

In the Diaghilev exhibition. I talked to him.

You spoke first?

No, he did. We talked about Nijinsky. Then we went off and had a meal together.

And then what?

Then I went home. And he went home. Why are you asking me this, father?

Only curiosity.

Irritation rose in him, looking at the undisturbed face; it was an odd sense of shame about the incident, considered in retrospect, that frayed his nerves. He said bluntly:

Are you wondering whether anything else happened between us? Because I’d rather you asked me frankly.

The priest shrugged slightly.

Did anything else happen?

No.

It doesn’t interest me particularly, you understand. What you tell me is completely your own affair. I have no wish to force your confidence. But, as you can guess, I know Austin very well indeed.

Sorme caught up the unspoken meaning instantly.

Quite. Which is why I’d prefer you to ask me anything you want to know quite frankly. I don’t know Austin at all well. We just ate a meal together and talked. But I don’t share his. . . tastes. Any of them.

The priest inclined his head.

I like your frankness. Then tell me: When Austin spoke to you and you went off together, did you have any idea of his. . . sexual peculiarities?

I guessed he was homosexual. That worried me a little. But I didn’t feel he was just picking me up.

Did he tell you later that he was homosexual?

No.

I see. And did he speak of anything else?

Sorme stared hard at him, failing to understand.

Anything else? What else?

I see. I was simply curious.

Sorme could see that the priest wanted to drop the subject, but his curiosity was touched.

Do you mean he has other sexual peculiarities?

That is not for me to say, is it?

Sorme stared hard at him for a moment, then said:

I see.

The priest smiled immediately.

Please don’t think I’m snubbing you. But as you probably know, Austin came to me a year ago with certain problems of his own. Now he sends you along, and, naturally, I wonder whether yours are of the same nature. But I cannot talk about Austin’s problems. He can do that himself if he wants to. Presumably you’re here to talk about yourself, not about Austin?

Sorme said embarrassedly:

I dunno that I’ve got anything that could be called a problem, father.

Well, no. That is not necessary, I agree. What kind of work do you do?

I write.

For a living?

No. I’ve got a small allowance. Just enough to live on.

You’re very lucky! What do you write?

A novel, at present. . .

Do you take any interest in politics, at all?

He said with surprise:

None whatever.

Do you ever go to church?

I often go into churches—preferably when there’s nobody else there.

Do you have any friends to discuss your ideas with?

Not really. . .

The priest smiled at him; the deep eyes were transformed when he was amused. Their good humour made Sorme feel completely at ease. He said:

You’re rather a difficult case, aren’t you?

Why, father?

You do nothing at all. Except write. That leaves an immense amount of time and opportunity for introspection. Then you go to see a priest in the same way that a man who never takes any exercise goes to see a doctor. Have you ever thought of seeing a psychologist?

The tone of banter made the words seem casual, but Sorme sensed their seriousness. He said:

Why should I? I’m not suffering from any illness. Besides, I suspect all psychologists of being fools and quacks. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me. Nothing that’s not wrong with all the human race, anyway.

Then why do you want to speak to a priest?

Sorme contemplated the grotesque, gnome’s face, and groped for an answer. He said finally:

Not because I think I’m ill, anyway.

The priest laughed:

All right, we’ll accept that. So you’re not ill. But you feel you are frustrated, somehow. Is that it?

Yes. But not personally or sexually.

A sense of misunderstanding and failure to contact irritated Sorme. It was the assumption underlying their conversation that disturbed him: the assumption that there was something wrong with him.

When you say sexually, you mean physically?

Yes, I suppose so.

I see. . .

The priest nodded, staring at his interlaced hands.

Well, well. I can see why Father Grey was so puzzled by you. It’s difficult to learn anything from you.

I’m sorry, father. . .

Let me try another question. What would you say is the centre of your interest in life? What do you really want?

The feeling of lack of contact became stronger; he had absolutely no inclination to try to express himself to the priest. While he was aware of the pale eyes watching him, he felt rebellious and annoyed. He made an effort to forget the priest and the vacuum that seemed to exist between them, to concentrate only on the ideas to be expressed. He stared into the fire, saying slowly:

I’d say all my life centres around an idea. An idea of a vision. I don’t mean. . . the kind of vision the saints saw. Not that kind. Another sort.

Can you explain yourself more clearly?

I.
         
. . I can give you an example of what I mean. Sometimes I wake up in the night with a sort of foreboding. Then I feel arbitrary. I feel somehow absurd. I feel, Who am I? And What am I doing here? I feel we take life too much for granted. We take our own existences for granted. But perhaps it’s not natural to exist. It happened the other night. You realise how much you normally take for granted, and feel a sudden terror in case you’ve no right to take anything for granted. Do you know what I mean, father?

He looked at Carruthers, and was immediately aware of having captured his attention. He began to feel better. The priest said:

I understand. Go on.

That’s one aspect of it. Then there’s another, that I think is completely different. A couple of months ago I picked up a girl in a café. I know her slightly—she studies at the Slade School. I went back and slept with her, and everything was fine. But the second night I slept with her, something odd happened. Quite suddenly, I didn’t want her. I don’t know quite why. I just lay there at the side of her, and felt a complete lack of desire to make love to her.

The priest said amiably:

That must have been embarrassing.

Yes. But that’s the odd thing. I lay there feeling embarrassed, and wishing I could understand what was the matter. I felt ashamed and irritable. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the girl. It was some other feeling conflicting with it. So I lay there, trying to discover what the other emotion was. And suddenly I felt a tremendous excitement. It was so strong that I felt I’d never want to sleep again. It didn’t correspond to anything in particular. It made me think about mathematics. I thought: I am lying here in the middle of London, with a population of three million people asleep around me, and a past that extends back to the time when the Romans built the city on a fever swamp. . . I can’t explain what I felt. It was a sense of participation in everything. I wanted to live a million times more than anybody has ever lived. Do you know what I mean, father?

I think so.

It was an excitement, you see. I was suddenly aware of how many people and places there are outside myself.

But you just mentioned mathematics. Why mathematics?

Well. . . because I thought about mathematics. At least, I didn’t begin thinking about mathematics. I was feeling irritated with the girl, and the idea that she wanted me to make love to her. Then I thought about something I’d read that day in a book on witchcraft. About a woman named Isobel Gowdie, who claimed she had sexual intercourse with demons while her husband was asleep beside her. . .

What made you think of that?

This girl I was sleeping with. She’s a completely spoilt, neurotic girl, a nymphomaniac. I suddenly felt sick of her lukewarm little titivations, her everlasting sexual itch. She had sex for the same reason that she chain-smoked. Boredom. Then I remembered Isobel Gowdie. At least sex meant something to her. She wanted to be possessed by the devil. She was probably bored stiff on a Scottish farm in the middle of nowhere. So she invented demons and devils.

There was a light tap on the door. Sorme started violently. A woman wearing an apron came in.

Mr Bryce and Mr Jennings have arrived, father.

What, already? All right, ask them to wait just a moment, would you, please?

As she went out, Sorme stood up.

I’d better go, father.

Sit down again for a moment. They’re early. They can wait. What you’ve been saying interests me very much. Have you ever spoken to anyone else about these things?

No, father.

I’d like you to come back and talk to me again. I’m not asking you because I think you need to talk to me—although perhaps you do. But what you say has a great deal of interest to me. Have you read my book on St John of the Cross?

No, father.

It’s over there, I think. Bottom shelf. Take it away with you, and look through it, if it doesn’t bore you too much. The chapter on the vision of God should interest you particularly. These experiences you speak of. . . I’m inclined to think that they’re the root of all visionary insights.

Sorme opened the glass doors of the bookcase, and found the slim, black-bound volume. The desire to get away had risen in him again, but this time it was for a different reason. He was suspicious of the relief he was beginning to feel in talking to the priest.