Ritual in the Dark

  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 o.k.

  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 Corbière 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 Corbière picture has a terrific impact even if you’ve never heard of Corbière. 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 o.k. by you, then?

  O.k., 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 floor-boards, 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 a 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 second-hand 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 Düsseldorf 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 Kürten 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 sub-human.

  What else did you expect?

  He walked the bicycle down Coptic Street, looking into the tea-shops 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 o
f 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 café. 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?