Ritual in the Dark

  Oh no. She’s expecting me, anyway. Come on in.

  She unlocked the back door. He said:

  She’s damn lucky to have such a place.

  Why don’t you try proposing to her? You might move in.

  Don’t be silly.

  He removed his raincoat and hung it at the bottom of the stairs. She was filling the kettle and setting it on the gas. She said:

  I’m not. I would if I was a man.

  Sorme came behind her, and slid his arms around her waist.

  I wouldn’t mind if you lived here.

  She leaned her head back, and let him kiss her mouth. He allowed his hands to rest against her, feeling the flatness of her thighs and the hard shapes of suspenders against them. She said:

  Ooh, stop it! We ought to behave.

  Why?

  Aunt might come.

  All right.

  He stepped away from her, aware of a tenseness in his stomach at the warmth of the contact. She said softly:

  I don’t want you to stop.

  Neither do I.

  He pulled off his jacket, feeling suddenly tired. He said:

  I’m going to wash. I feel a wreck.

  In the bathroom, he stripped off his pullover and shirt, and washed his chest and neck with warm water. He leaned against the wall and yawned deeply. In the bedroom next door he could hear sounds as Caroline moved around. His shirt was damp with sweat. He tucked it into his trousers, then combed his hair, beginning to feel slightly better. He had washed his face with an almost dry sponge. Looking at it closely in the mirror, he saw he needed a shave.

  Her bedroom door stood open. He said:

  What are you doing?

  Changing.

  Can I come in?

  She was wearing a flowered cotton dress. He stood behind her as she combed her hair, seated in front of the mirror.

  Do you keep your clothes here?

  Some of them. Old ones mostly.

  This doesn’t look old.

  He leaned over her and allowed his lips to brush her ear. He said:

  I should have come in a few minutes sooner.

  She smiled at him from the mirror, then stood up. He tried to put his arms around her. She pushed them away.

  No. Let’s go down.

  Why?

  Aunt might come.

  We’d hear the car.

  The kettle should be boiling.

  He turned her round and pulled her closer. She was wearing no shoes, and he had to bend to kiss her. She put both arms around his neck. If he had straightened up, she would have swung six inches off the floor. He felt the warmth of the out-thrust under-lip, then the yielding as her lips parted. Her body was bent back in his arms. He said:

  You’re too short.

  She said, laughing:

  You’re too tall.

  He pressed her waist close to him and lifted her off the ground.

  I’d get a stiff neck if I had to keep bending down there!

  He carried her two steps backwards, then lowered her against the bed. The backs of her knees pressed on the edge, and she allowed herself to be released on to it. She said plaintively:

  Do behave yourself. She might come.

  He lifted her legs and pushed them across the eiderdown, then lay down beside her and kissed her again. He felt the same excite­ment and tension as on the previous evening, and a sense of repetition. He also recognised instinctively that she was not as excited as he was, and kissed her more firmly, caressing her left breast with his free hand. She stopped resisting, and allowed him to lie halfway across her. When he stopped kissing her, she said:

  You are naughty. We oughtn’t. . . .

  He stopped the words by kissing her, and felt her tense under his weight, then relaxed and lay beside her, his face against the pillow. She said pleadingly:

  It isn’t the right place. Let me come and visit you. It’s no good here.

  He said: All right. The hoarseness of his voice surprised him. He cleared his throat, and looked at her face. Her chin looked sore, and he remembered that he needed a shave. She was lying with her cheek on her right arm, making no attempt to move, although he was no longer holding her. The wide hem of her skirt spread behind her across the counterpane. He slipped his left arm underneath her neck and pulled her to him again. She could feel his excitement, and he was aware of the beating of her heart as he kissed her. His right hand pressed into the back of her thigh, then moved up to her buttock, and felt the smoothness of her knickers against his finger-tips. She said:

  Please not now, Gerard. . . .

  They both heard the noise of the car simultaneously. He said, groaning:

  Oh, Christ, just my luck.

  She sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling down her dress. She glanced in the mirror and switched at her hair with her fingers. She looked at the expression of gloom and ferocity on his face, and bent to kiss him.

  Come on. Get up. Let me tidy the bed.

  He rolled off unwillingly, muttering. She said, laughing:

  Stop scowling and go and make the tea.

  They heard the sound of a car door slamming. He said:

  I can’t. I’m ready to rape the first girl I see. Even Gertrude.

  I expect she’d be delighted!

  She ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He went into the bathroom, and sat on the edge of the lavatory seat, staring at his feet. The excitement began to die out of his shoulders and thighs. He heard a key inserted in the front door, then the door opened. Caroline’s voice called:

  Hello, aunt.

  Miss Quincey said:

  Hello, dear. How did you get in?

  Gerard got the back-door key.

  Gerard . . . ?

  The voices retreated into the kitchen. He looked at himself in the mirror, and combed his hair. Then, to supply a reason for his presence upstairs, he pulled the lavatory chain. He made sure that his clothes were adjusted, then went downstairs.

  Caroline was alone in the kitchen, pouring water into the teapot. When he looked enquiringly at her, she pointed towards the door. He went into the other room and found Miss Quincey taking several books out of a briefcase and arranging them in the bookcase. She said brightly:

  Hello, Gerard. What brought you here?

  I was hoping we could have some tea together.

  Was it important?

  No. . . . I’ve been at the British Museum this afternoon. I got tired of reading and thought I’d like to see you.

  She finished arranging the books, and straightened up.

  That was sweet of you. You should have rung. How long have you been here?

  Oh, five minutes. I met Caroline at the end of the street. . . .

  She smiled at him.

  Well, you’ll have to come over some other afternoon. Would you like to stay for supper tonight?

  What about your meeting?

  You needn’t come if you don’t want to. You could take Caroline for a walk on the Heath. It’ll be over by nine.

  No. I’d like to, but I’m seeing Austin. . . . Anyway, we couldn’t really talk much, could we? . . .

  She said cheerfully:

  No. I expect you’re right.

  She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it as she went past, smiling at him. He wondered what had made her so good-tempered. The slight sense of guilt about Caroline made him feel that, whatever the reason, he was exceptionally lucky.

  When he heard her speaking to Caroline in the kitchen, he was glad he was seeing Austin later. It gave him no excuse to stay. With the two women together, in the same room, he experienced a draining sense of self-division, a feeling of being victimised.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For heaven’s sake, not so much whisky! You’ll have me pie-eyed before we get to this club.

  Drink what you can, Nunne said. He handed Sorme a tumbler half full of whisky. He said:

  Now. Food. Let’s see what we have in the fridge.

  May I come and look at your kitchen? br />
  Do.

  He followed Nunne out of the room, and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him take food out of the refrigerator and place it on a trolley. He said:

  It’s bloody big. Big enough for four kitchens.

  It belonged to my uncle. He liked giving large dinners prepared by several cooks. It’s really rather large for me. But I like a lot of space when I’m cooking.

  The kitchen gave the impression that it had been installed as a showroom, or transferred immediately from the Ideal Homes Exhibition. The rack of glass plates and dishes, the rows of saucepans, even the enormous deal table in the middle of the room, looked as if they had never been used. The white-enam­elled bench next to the gas-stoves had half a dozen electrical gadgets clamped to its edge. The pattern of yellow and white check that covered the walls was repeated in marble shades on the floor. Sorme said:

  Don’t you ever have girls trying to marry you to get in on this?

  It has happened. Not recently, though. I don’t let girls see it any more. Do you like asparagus?

  I don’t think I’ve ever had any.

  Really? Then here is where you start.

  What does Gertrude think of this place?

  She sometimes comes and uses it. When she wants to cook something really exotic. It has timing gadgets fixed to every­thing. . . . Catch!

  He gave the trolley a sudden push and sent it shooting towards Sorme. Sorme said, laughing:

  Fool!

  He caught it before it hit the wall. It contained a dish of asparagus spears, and a cold chicken with one leg missing. There was a glass jug of mayonnaise that looked as if it was frozen solid. He said:

  What would you have done if I’d missed it?

  Taken you out for supper. Would you take it in there? I’m buttering bread. Help yourself. Plates and things underneath. I’ll bring the salad.

  Back in the dining-room, he pulled a wing off the chicken, and cut several slices, leaving the leg for Austin. He piled asparagus on his plate, and spooned the almost solid mayonnaise beside it. He propped a book against the cushion and began to read. From the kitchen came the sound of a cork shooting out of a bottle.

  Nunne came up beside him as he read, and piled salad on to his plate.

  I’ve found some champagne.

  Good. But I’ve still got all that whisky.

  Drink that later.

  Sorme was forced to stop reading as the plate wobbled and almost fell off his knees. Nunne said:

  Hold on. I’ll give you a tray.

  After looking around vaguely for a moment, he said:

  Can’t find a tray. Use this.

  He pulled a large, thin book out of the case, and handed it to Sorme. Sorme asked:

  What is it?

  He opened it, and discovered sheets of music, written with a pencil, and curious symbols drawn between the lines.

  Do you recognise it?

  No. I can’t read music.

  It’s not just music. It’s the original manuscript of Nijinsky’s Rite of Spring. Those funny signs are a choreography he invented himself. That’s his handwriting across the top.

  Where did you get it?

  From a collector.

  Sorme began to eat again. He left the manuscript volume open on the cushions beside him. Nunne said, smiling:

  Can’t you bring yourself to eat off it?

  It’s a funny sensation. To know he wrote this with his own hand.

  That writing in green ink on the cover is Stravinsky’s hand­writing.

  Yes?

  I say, you’re not eating those asparagus spears whole!

  Aren’t I supposed to?

  No! You eat down to the tough part. Like me.

  Oh, I see. Thanks.

  He reached out for his champagne glass. He said:

  To Vaslav.

  He emptied it in one draught. A sensation of warmth and delight coursed through him like a faint electric shock. Nunne repeated: To Vaslav, and drank. Sorme said:

  I suppose it must be rather fun to be rich.

  Nunne grimaced:

  Better than being poor. But it doesn’t guarantee anything.

  No?

  He laughed, feeling that the pleasure had to find some ex­pression. Nunne said curiously:

  What is it?

  I was hungry.

  He would not tell Nunne the real reason: that he felt suddenly reconciled to his own existence, able to weigh it, summarise it, and feel only gratitude. It was a sensation he would have been glad to convey to Nunne, feeling grateful to him for being the cause of his insight. But saying it would have meant nothing. Nunne stood up and poured more champagne into both glasses. He said:

  I’m surprised you get so enthusiastic about Nijinsky. You never saw him dance.

  Sorme shrugged.

  It’s not that. There’s something else. The independence. A sort of pure vitality.

  I’m surprised you don’t prefer someone like D. H. Lawrence, who expresses it far more clearly.

  No. I can’t stick Lawrence. He seems to me to stand for a diluted version of what Nijinsky stood for. He always gives me a feeling that people matter too much to him. They nag him, and he doesn’t like them much. Anyway, he was all wrong about sex.

  I’m afraid I just can’t agree. I admire him very much.

  All right. Let’s not argue about it. Tell me something. Why is Gertrude so fond of you?

  I’m afraid I don’t know. I just don’t know. We’ve known one another so long. . . .

  He swallowed the last of the chicken leg, and placed the bone carefully on the side of his plate. He said, with apparent irrelev­ance:

  I’m delighted you get on so well with her.

  She’s sweet. But all this religious stuff worries me.

  Don’t let it worry you. She likes you.

  Do you think she’s ever had any experience with men?

  Probably very little. Why? Do you find her attractive?

  Sorme admitted: She’s the type that attracts me. Slim. Good figure.

  Well, don’t, please don’t take her to bed. It wouldn’t be good for her.

  Why?

  Because she takes everything too seriously. If she wants a man at this late date, she ought to marry.

  Sorme said gloomily:

  I dare say you’re right.

  He was sorry he had mentioned the subject; he was not sure yet whether he seriously wanted an affair with Gertrude Quincey, and to speak of it seemed premature. As if he guessed Sorme’s thought, Nunne said:

  Don’t worry! I don’t really suspect your intentions towards Gertrude. Anyway, she’s a little old for you. And that’s not the real reason you like seeing her, is it?

  Sorme looked at him with interest:

  No, it’s not. What do you think my reason is?

  Something to do with her beliefs. You can’t make out whether she’s dishonest.

  That’s pretty good guessing! But it’s not just Gertrude . . . it’s me. I want to know where I differ from her. You know . . . I’d need to have a nervous breakdown, or be brainwashed or some­thing, before I could swallow all that stuff about the Bible being the last word on everything. . . . I just don’t understand it. I mean . . . was she brought up to believe it? Is that it? She seems quite intelligent in other ways. You know what I mean? If she put on a powdered wig and claimed to be Madame de Pom­padour it’d puzzle me less. . . . I could understand someone with an obsession having strange ideas. But she seems perfectly balanced. She’s not an Oliver Glasp. . . .

  Oliver? Do you know Oliver?

  Sorme stopped, feeling, for a moment, that he had given some­thing away: he recovered immediately, saying:

  Yes. I went to call on him today.

  Nunne was obviously astonished.

  What on earth for?

  What you told me of him made me curious to meet him. And I liked his canvases. Father Rakosi gave me his address.

  Nunne regarded him with amusement:

  You reall
y are odd! Why didn’t you mention it to me?

  I intended to. It wasn’t supposed to be a secret.

  And what did you say to each other?

  Not much. I thought he was going to be rude to begin with. He growled like a dog. . . .

  That sounds like Oliver!

  Then we talked about . . . oh, religion, asceticism. And finally about murder. . . .

  That also sounds like Oliver!

  Why? Is it one of his favourite subjects?

  Oh yes. Quite his favourite.

  Why, I wonder?

  I don’t know. He has a thing about pain and suffering. He lets it drive him a little hay-wire occasionally. Broods on it too much. When I first knew him, he had some theory . . . let me think . . . oh yes . . . an idea that life is a preparation for eternal torment. He had it all worked out. The body acts as a sort of buffer against pain, but in spite of that we suffer all the time. And when we’re freed from the body, there’d be nothing to keep off the pain . . . just eternal pain. From which he deduced that everyone ought to make himself suffer all the time . . . as a sort of practice for eternity. I think he used to wear a shirt studded with tintacks.

  Really? I never suspected that.

  But he’s not entirely a crank, Oliver. I really believe he has a sort of second sight.

  Are you serious?

  Quite. His family are Irish, you know.

  I thought he came from Yorkshire?

  Lancashire. Liverpool Irish. I don’t think he’s ever been in Ireland. But someone once told me—Father Carruthers, I think—that Oliver’s grandmother was a famous witch-cum-holy woman in County Clare . . . mediumship, second sight, the lot. And Oliver shows signs of the same thing occasionally.

  How?

  Promise you won’t repeat this to him?

  I promise.

  Well, he hadn’t been sleeping properly—and had awful nightmares. One morning he told his landlady: A man called Thomas is going to be murdered on the Common tonight. She thought he was off his rocker. Well, that night, a man called Thomas was waylaid on the common—for his wallet—but they hit him too hard and killed him. Oliver had dreamed it exactly as it happened.

  Sorme felt the hair prickling on his scalp. He said:

  Christ!

  And Oliver couldn’t sleep the next night either—he still had dreams. Luckily, his landlady sent him to see a doctor, who sent him to a psychiatrist. Father Carruthers found the money, and he went into a private mental home for a while. That cured him. But the fact remains, he dreamed of the murder before it happened.