Ritual in the Dark

  Couldn’t we persuade him to see a psychiatrist? Just on the off-chance of getting a cure?

  You could try.

  I wonder if his parents suspect? But no, they couldn’t . . .

  They might.

  She was almost talking to herself; he replied only for the sake of politeness. She said:

  He was always a strange child. He had a cruel streak.

  Sorme asked with interest:

  Did he? How?

  Not real cruelty; just a sort of impulsive thing. . . .

  How?

  He once pushed the gardener’s boy off the roof of the shed, and broke his arm. And he had a curious dislike of dolls.

  Was he often cruel?

  Not often, no. But he had a sort of . . . dark side to his character. He’d go into sulks for days on end and refuse to be coaxed out of them. He could never keep toys for more than a few hours—he had to break them. And he didn’t get on with other children because he sometimes tried to hurt them or break their toys. It was the same kind of thing as his dislike of dolls.

  Whose dolls?

  Any little girl’s. He once smashed a beautiful doll that belonged to his cousin Jane—an enormous doll that came from Austria. He smashed it with a hammer. He broke all my dolls. . . .

  You played with dolls? Sorme asked, smiling.

  Not then. But I had dolls that lay around in some old cupboard. Austin discovered them and tore them to pieces.

  He sounds quite a delinquent!

  Oh no! He wasn’t like that all the time. It was just occasion­ally—a demon seemed to get into him. And when that happened, he became a different person.

  But why do you think he smashed dolls?

  I don’t know. He gets bored so easily. And when he gets bored, I think he has an impulse to do something violent. He’s quite capable of asking you to pack a bag and go off to the other side of the world with him. . . .

  He has!

  What did you say?

  I refused. I’ve other things to do.

  Good. You must be very firm with him. You could be a good influence on him . . . if you don’t let him lead you along his own paths.

  He won’t lead me any further than I want to go!

  She seemed to read another threat in this. She asked doubt­fully:

  Don’t you think it might be better if you stopped seeing him?

  What should I do instead? Come and see you?

  He said it teasingly; to his surprise, she answered with gravity:

  You could if you wanted to.

  He stared at her, trying hard to see the expression on her face. He said:

  I’d enjoy that.

  But what are we going to do about Austin?

  I don’t understand you. There’s nothing we can do. Anyway, I’m afraid I ought to go now.

  Right now? It’s still raining.

  I . . . I wanted to get a bath. I feel like a haystack. And I’ve got to cook supper for someone later. Excuse me.

  He stood up and went out of the room.

  As he came out of the bathroom, she called:

  By the way, Gerard?

  Yes?

  Wouldn’t you rather have a bath here?

  No, really, thanks. . . .

  Her suggestion embarrassed him for some reason.

  Is it easy to get a bath where you live? Is there always hot water?

  There’s a geyser—you put a bob in it. . . .

  When he thought of the bathroom, with its door panelled in brown glass and the deep, old-fashioned bath that could be filled with infinite slowness from the temperamental water-heater, he began to feel that Miss Quincey’s suggestion had much to be said for it. She said:

  It sounds ridiculously troublesome. It would be so much easier here.

  Would it be any trouble?

  None whatever.

  Well—in that case, thank you. . . .

  As he undressed, he imagined that Gertrude Quincey had become his mistress, and that he was living here. For some reason, it was very easy to imagine. Except, of course, for Caroline. . . . Caroline was a problem. He thought about it as he released himself cautiously into the warm water. Five years of celibacy, of partial boredom, of the unsuccessful attempt to harvest his own solitude. Then abruptly involvement, too many people, and two potential mistresses. Caroline offered herself with curious frankness. It was the kind of thing one imagined might happen in day-dreams; when it happened, it was almost impossible to resist. Yet in many ways Gertrude was the more attractive of the two. The challenge was greater.

  He helped himself to bath-salts from the row on the window­sill; they smelt of lemon. As he replaced the jar, he heard a sound of singing. He listened carefully, and realised it was Miss Quincey. A moment later she stopped. He sat there, straining his ears to catch the sound above the noise of water refilling the hot tank. It was difficult to imagine Miss Quincey singing to herself, especially after their conversation.

  As he dried himself, he could hear her moving about in the room next door. This was the room Caroline slept in. He combed his wet hair, humming a theme from the Prokofiev symphony, and wondered how he could get to know more about Gertrude Quincey.

  He opened the door and stepped out on to the landing. He could hear her now in the room at the end of the passage-way. He moved towards it, treading softly on the thick carpet.

  She said: Oh, you startled me!

  Sorry.

  How do you feel now?

  Fine. Much better.

  She finished spreading the counterpane, and pulled it into position. As she turned, he seized her around the waist and lifted her off the ground, doing a single turn with her before setting her down. He said:

  I should bath more often.

  The feeling of her body excited him. Her cheeks were flushed. She said:

  I’m glad you feel better.

  He found it difficult not to reach out for her again. Before he could make up his mind, she went out of the door, saying:

  Come along. You shouldn’t be in here.

  Why not?

  Because it’s my bedroom.

  That’s no reason.

  She said: People wouldn’t like it.

  He followed her down the stairs.

  People won’t know, will they? And it’s none of their business, anyway.

  Perhaps not.

  She went ahead of him into the kitchen. He had begun to feel as if he was pursuing her, so he restrained himself from following her, and went instead into the sitting-room. There he sat trying to read a newspaper, while his thoughts recurred constantly to the feeling of holding her, and to the fact that she had made no protest. The uncertainty made him restless; he began to feel annoyed with himself. A moment later she opened the hatch between the kitchen and the sitting-room, asking:

  Would you like a cup of tea before you go?

  Er . . . thanks. What are you doing now?

  Washing up.

  Can I help?

  No, thank you. There’s almost nothing.

  He went into the kitchen, and found her at the sink, wearing a plastic apron. She said:

  You needn’t have come. . . .

  No?

  He came up behind her, and put his arms around her waist from behind, saying:

  I wanted to. After that superb meal. . . .

  Stop it, Gerard!

  She made no attempt to push his arms away. He lowered his face until his chin rested against the top of her head.

  Do you object?

  Of course I object. Do stop it, please.

  He released her, and picked up a tea towel.

  Does it make you angry to be touched?

  No . . . but it’s rather pointless, isn’t it?

  Her tone was not encouraging, but he had already made his decision. He said cheerfully:

  Oh, I don’t know. I must admit I enjoy it.

  Don’t be silly.

  Why silly?

  Just because I invite you to lunch you don’t have to flirt with m
e.

  He took the last fork from her, and dried it.

  Tell me, Gertrude. . . . These Jehovah’s Witnesses who come here . . . don’t they ever flirt with you? I mean the men, of course.

  They’re mostly married.

  Hmmm. What about this artistic set?

  What artistic set?

  Austin told me you have a lot of arty-crafty people around.

  She looked at him with surprise:

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. I know one or two people in Hampstead—a retired colonel, a publisher’s reader.

  He suspected that she was trying to keep the conversation deliberately casual. The kettle was already boiling; she started to make the tea. He asked:

  And do you object to being flirted with?

  Don’t be silly.

  That’s no answer.

  She snapped suddenly:

  No, I don’t mind. But it’s rather pointless, isn’t it?

  I don’t know.

  He was sitting on the edge of the table. As she turned he tried to take hold of her again. She twisted away and pushed his arms down.

  Do stop it, Gerard! I really don’t know what’s making you behave like this.

  He said, laughing:

  Half an hour ago you thought I might be homosexual!

  I didn’t! That’s untrue! I never thought so for a single moment.

  Good. So long as I’m sure.

  She poured milk from the bottle into the jug with an indignant jerk of her wrist. The milk shot over the rim of the jug and splashed on the tray. She said:

  Oh really, Gerard!

  He was on the point of saying: ‘It’s your own fault!’ when she turned on him suddenly. To his surprise, he saw she was on the point of tears. She said:

  Do please stop it!

  All right. . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.

  He had started to suspect that she was secretly enjoying his attempts to flirt with her; her distress bewildered him. He turned and went into the other room, and dropped on to the settee. Her attitude was not entirely a disadvantage. At least it helped in some ways to destroy the formality that had made him so irritable last time he came. He picked up the newspaper and tried to concentrate. The article he began to read stated that people use three times as many facial muscles in frowning as in smiling, and that therefore one saves energy by smiling. He folded the paper and hurled it at the armchair opposite and scowled into the bars of the fire, wondering what to say to her when she came in. She was a long time bringing the tea. He began to wonder if she wanted him to go without seeing her. A moment later she came in, pushing the trolley.

  I’m sorry I’ve been so long.

  He said automatically: You haven’t.

  He watched her pouring the tea without speaking. When she handed him his cup, he said:

  I really don’t understand you.

  She sugared her own tea without looking at him.

  I don’t understand you!

  You really find it repellent to be touched?

  Of course I don’t! It’s just that . . . it’s silly to start behaving like that.

  Like what? he said, determined to be uncooperative.

  I’d rather talk . . . as we did the other night . . . about sensible things.

  He said reasonably: I like talking with you too.

  Then let’s go on like that!

  But I also like touching you. It gives me pleasure.

  He could feel her uncertainty, and he pressed the advantage. He leaned forward, smiling at her, and said:

  Even the other night, when we were talking, I kept thinking how pleasant it’d be to put my arms round your waist.

  She dropped her eyes to the cup.

  But why?

  Because I find you very attractive.

  She looked into his face seriously; her impatience had vanished. She said:

  But it’s silly, Gerard!

  Why?

  Because . . . What could come of it?

  He shrugged: I don’t know.

  Nothing. Nothing at all. I’d like to be your friend—but you’re a great deal younger than I am. . . .

  He decided abruptly to force the issue.

  You’d like me to stop coming here?

  No, of course I wouldn’t! I like to talk to you. I think . . . I think that you’re a serious person and you’re searching for something . . . and I’d like to help you find it. Because I’m older than you and . . . I’ve been through it myself . . . and I could help you. . . . But we ought to be serious about it.

  He said, shrugging:

  In that case, there’s not much more to say.

  Why?

  He finished drinking his tea. He felt that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion, and that there was no point in going on. He said bluntly and dogmatically:

  I’ve been alone for five years now. I can go on being alone for another five, or for another fifty if it comes to that. I don’t need helping and never have. I like seeing you, but if you’re going to start drawing lines and setting limits, I’d rather chuck it all.

  He set his cup back on the tray. She asked:

  More?

  He looked at his watch, saying:

  No, thanks. I’d better go.

  She said quietly: Let’s not quarrel.

  All right.

  It made no difference to his feeling of having reached an end. She said:

  Have another cup of tea.

  All right.

  She poured it, and handed it to him. He drank it in silence. She began to speak, hesitantly:

  I know you’ve been alone. I don’t want to . . . try to interfere. You’ve got so used to the feeling of having to fight the battle alone that you’ve become suspicious of other people. You’ve become hardened to them. But I know you’re not really hard. . . . I know you’ve a lot of sensitivity. . . . Perhaps you’re really afraid of being hurt. . . .

  Her tendency to use phrases like ‘searching for something’ and ‘fight the battle’ made him wince inwardly, and increased his impatience. He began to wonder if she saw his attempts to flirt with her as some kind of complicated defence against her. He interrupted her:

  My desire to steer clear of your Jehovah’s Witnesses isn’t a fear of being hurt. It’s a fear of being bored.

  For a moment, he wondered if he’d gone too far. But her face showed no sign of offence. She said reasonably:

  I haven’t tried to make you meet them, have I?

  No. That’s true.

  He stood up.

  I’m afraid I’ll have to go.

  Her face was troubled as she looked at him; he could tell that she was trying to gauge how far he was impatient with her. She said hesitantly:

  You do understand, don’t you?

  Yes, I understand.

  You won’t speak to Austin . . . ?

  No.

  She followed him out into the hall. He buttoned his raincoat and belted it, then extracted the beret from the pocket. The silence hung between them, the silence in which there would normally have been thanks and disclaimers, vague arrangements to meet again. The situation seemed so full of latent comedy, of which she was completely unaware, that he found it difficult not to smile. As he opened the door, she said: Goodbye, Gerard.

  Bye-bye.

  He turned to her, took her by the waist, and pulled her to him. He felt her stiffen for a moment, then give way. She moved her face slightly so that his lips touched her cheek. He held them there for a moment, feeling the warmth of triumph stir, then released her. He turned away from her and went out of the door without looking back. He walked cautiously across the wet lawn in case he slipped and spoiled the exit.

  As the bicycle free-wheeled down East Heath Road, he experienced a pure elation. He said aloud: You bloody fool. It’s time you grew up!

  . . . . .

  The church clock chimed four as he passed the Chalk Farm Underground. The sight of the grocer’s shops reminded him that he still had to
buy food for Glasp. He bought a half-pound of gammon and four tins of vegetables, and packed them in his saddle-bag. As he was about to ride off again he noticed the headline of the evening paper inside the station. He dropped two­pence halfpenny into the tin and took one. The bold type read:

  HAS KILLER MOVED TO GREENWICH?

  Aware of the unease that moved his bowels, he leaned against the wall, reading it.

  ‘The body of a young woman was found in a disused warehouse near Greenwich Reach this morning. Early this afternoon she was identified by her husband as Doris Elizabeth Marr, twenty-five-year-old housewife of Albury Street, Deptford. The husband, Reginald Marr, 26, who works nights in a Deptford laundry, told police that his wife had set out at ten last night to visit her mother in Woolwich. . . .’

  His eyes travelled to the bottom of the column: ‘The people south of the river are asking themselves the question: Has the White­chapel killer decided to move?’

  A peculiarly unpleasant sensation touched him with disgust: it was a hot, sticky feeling in the area of his stomach.

  At Kentish Town station he bought the other two evening papers and stuffed them in a roll into his pocket. Somehow, the feeling of disgust affected the satisfaction he felt whenever he thought of Gertrude Quincey. He found it difficult to understand the sense of foreboding the news report produced.

  Back in his room, he sat on the bed and read all three accounts of the murder carefully. One of them carried a full-length article with a diagram of the site of the murder; the writer asked how a married woman had been lured so far off her normal route from Deptford to Woolwich, and seemed inclined to doubt whether the murderer was the White­chapel killer.

  It was still only four-thirty; Glasp was not expected for another two hours. When he closed his eyes, the image of Gertrude Quincey’s face came to him, the mouth soft, the eyes slightly frightened. It was the way a woman might look before she grasped the intention behind the violence of the man who intended to kill her. He tried hard to dismiss her face, and watched it re-form every time he closed his eyes. His whole body lurched with pity and repugnance; he reached out for the bookcase, and took the first book his fingers met; it was Merton’s Seven Story Mountain. He started to read, but found it hard to concentrate. Finally, he laid the book on the floor, and closed his eyes again.