Ritual in the Dark

  There was nothing at first. The sleep was clear, without images. Then he began to see it: in the half-darkness, in a warehouse, an animal like a crab; something flat with prehensile claws. He was aware of nothing else; only the crab-like creature, moving silently into the half-light; moving strangely, obliquely, but with in­tention, entirely itself, possessed by an urge that was its identity, entire unification of its being in one desire, one lust, a certainty. It was not a man; it was what was inside a man as he waited.

  . . . . .

  He heard someone knocking on the door downstairs as he peeled the potatoes. He called: Hello.

  Glasp’s voice said: Ah, I’m in the right place!

  Good. Come on up. I’m just starting to cook supper.

  Glasp stepped cautiously up the stairs, lowering his head as he came to the bend. Sorme finished slicing the potatoes, and poured them into the seething nut oil in the chip pan. Glasp picked up an old newspaper from the table and scanned the front page with perfunctory interest; he sat with his feet thrust out, his shoulders against the wall. His face looked as pale and unshaven as on the previous day. Sorme noticed that his socks were of different colours. He said:

  I see that the White­chapel murderer seems to have changed his field of activity. . . .

  What?

  Haven’t you seen the papers?

  No.

  A woman in Greenwich has been assaulted and killed. The police seem to think it’s the same man. . . .

  Greenwich? Glasp said. I don’t believe it. It can’t be the same man.

  Why not? What makes you think he’s sticking to Spitalfields?

  Glasp shrugged.

  I don’t know. But he’s stuck pretty close so far, hasn’t he?

  Yes. But surely that’s a good reason for moving? White-chapel’ll soon be too hot to hold him. What makes you think he’d want to stay there? Do you think he’s looking for something in White­chapel?

  Glasp said:

  Now, I don’t know, do I? Your guess is as good as mine. I heard a bloke today who seemed to think it was the Fascists out to terrorise the Jews.

  Where did you hear that?

  Oh, some bloke up on a platform this morning. Communist.

  But were any of the victims Jewish?

  I dunno. I don’t think so.

  But you don’t think this Greenwich murder is the same man?

  Glasp said impatiently:

  Oh now don’t ask me! I don’t know.

  Sorme sensed that his impatience was not intended to be offensive, and he suppressed the twinge of irritation it produced. He had decided that the apparent rudeness in Glasp’s manner was only the result of too much living alone. He said:

  I hope he’s caught. I’d like to find out who he is.

  Glasp looked up at him; he said ironically:

  I dare say a lot of people feel like that.

  Like what?

  They want him caught to satisfy their curiosity. Not because he’s killing women.

  Sorme said seriously:

  I dare say you’re right. After all, how can anyone really identify himself with an East End prostitute? Most people probably feel that the murderer needs as much pity as his victims. At least he’s doing something that most men are capable of. . . .

  Do you think most men are?

  I think so. We’re still animals with sudden and violent appetites. I can’t count the number of times I’ve passed a woman in the street and wished I could get her in the dark. Haven’t you?

  I suppose so. But that’s a long way from rape. I’d like to see the man caught because he’s a menace in the part where I live. Tomorrow it might be somebody I know.

  Glasp’s northern accent had become more noticeable. Something in his tone impressed Sorme with its seriousness. He said:

  I suppose you’re right. That’s another reason for hoping he’s moved to Greenwich.

  What difference does it make? Wherever he moves, lives get wasted. People have to die, just because a man’s something worse than a man, a dirty animal, something that only thinks of his own pleasure, with no moral sense.

  Glasp’s tone was so irritable and belligerent that Sorme decided to drop the subject. He made a mental note to raise it again later, when his guest was in a better mood. He said:

  Well, let’s hope he’s caught soon. Shall we go downstairs? These chips’ll take another ten minutes.

  He opened the bottle of red wine and poured into two tumblers.

  Glasp smacked his lips, saying:

  This is good stuff. Very nice. What is it?

  He picked up the bottle and looked at the label. Sorme said:

  I like wine—when I can afford it.

  You can say that again. I haven’t been able to afford anything but Spanish hogwash for five years.

  I’ll leave you for a while. Look through my books. Or there are records there if you like music.

  He opened the door, and walked into Caroline, who had her hand raised to knock. He said:

  Hello, sweet! I didn’t expect you.

  I haven’t come to stay; don’t worry.

  She was already in the room. Sorme said:

  You two don’t know one another, do you? Oliver Glasp. Caroline Denbigh.

  Caroline said:

  Oh, you’re the famous Oliver Glasp! I’ve met you somewhere before, haven’t I?

  Glasp was staring at her, wearing an odd, sulky expression. He said:

  I don’t know.

  The accent became broad, as deliberate as that of a Yorkshire comedian. Looking at Caroline, Sorme found it impossible to imagine why Glasp should seem displeased. She was wearing a fur coat, with a fur hood that almost covered her face. The face, under the fringe of blonde hair, was as pink and round as a doll’s. He said:

  Have a glass of wine, sweet?

  Ooh, rather!

  She pulled back the hood to take her first sip of wine. She was wearing black gloves. Sorme said:

  I’ve got to go and cook some chips. Come on up to the kitchen with me.

  When they were alone in the kitchen, she said:

  I don’t think he likes me much.

  Oh, I don’t know. His manner’s always a bit gruff. He’s all right when you get to know him.

  Isn’t it hot up here?

  Take your coat off.

  No, pet. I won’t stay. I’m just on my way to rehearsal and I thought I’d come and say hello. It doesn’t start till eight. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t got any other women.

  Where have you come from?

  Aunt Gertrude’s. I’m sleeping there tonight.

  Oh yes. How is she?

  She’s all right. What did she want to see you about?

  Austin.

  Oh yes!

  Why, what did you think? . . .

  Oh, I don’t know. She wants to get you into her Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  How do you know?

  Oh, it’s pretty obvious. What did she want to know about Austin?

  She’s found out he’s queer. I think she wanted to know if I was.

  And what did you say?

  I tossed her vigorously on the bed and made her think I was a goat in disguise.

  Don’t be silly! What did you say?

  Oh, nothing. . . . I just tried to make her see that there’d be no point in giving Austin a lecture on the laws of Moses. She took it rather well, on the whole.

  Tell me about it. In detail.

  He gave her an account of his conversation with Miss Quincey while he fried the gammon, stopping at the point where he had a bath. She said:

  She looked a bit upset when I came home. I wondered what had been going on!

  What time was that?

  Oh, about four.

  He shook the chips in their wire basket until the brown ones came to the top, then immersed them again in the boiling fat. He said:

  Does she know you’re here?

  No. I’ve got a feeling she’d be jealous.

  Why? Do you think she’s
after me?

  I shouldn’t think so!

  Why, then?

  Because she discovered you before I did. I think she wants you for her Bible class.

  Hmmm.

  She had laid her coat over the kitchen chair. She was wearing a plain red dress, with a band of fur round the neck. He bent and kissed her, and felt the coldness of her lips which gave way imme­diately to the inside of her mouth. The familiar reaction of desire came over him; as she stood against him, he cupped her buttocks in his hands and strained her thighs tight against him. He said, laughing: Bed?

  Not now. There’s someone in your room!

  There won’t be tomorrow night.

  You’ll have to wait till tomorrow then, won’t you?

  He experienced a lurch of delight at her frankness. He said:

  You could come back later tonight. . . .

  I couldn’t. Aunt Gertrude’d get suspicious. Then I’d have to go home to Wimbledon every night. . . .

  The saucepan lid began to jar softly as the steam forced it open. He released her with regret and turned back to the cooking. She said:

  You know, I’ve met that man somewhere before. . . .

  Where?

  I don’t know. Let me think. St. Martin’s . . . St. Martin’s . . .

  The Art School?

  No, I . . . It’s something to . . . Ah, I remember. The amuse­ment arcade. In the Charing Cross Road. That’s where I saw him.

  That doesn’t sound like Oliver!

  Yes, it was. I’m sure. He was with a little girl, and he started a row about one of the machines—it didn’t work, or something. He was wearing a dirty old duffle-coat.

  What was the girl like?

  I don’t know. I didn’t really notice her. Quite a little girl—about ten or eleven, I’d say.

  Attractive?

  What, at that age! You don’t think he likes them that young, do you?

  I shouldn’t think so. But I saw a painting he did of a little girl—might be the same one.

  He turned and peered down the stairs, wondering if their voices were audible to Glasp, and decided not. She asked:

  What’s the time, Gerard?

  Ten-past seven.

  I’d better be off.

  Wouldn’t you like some supper?

  No, thanks. I’ve had tea.

  He took the warm plates from under the grill and used the fish-slice to put the bacon on them; he shook the fat out of the chips, and poured them from the wire basket on to the plates. Caroline said approvingly:

  Mmmmm! You’re quite a good cook. If we ever got married, you’d be useful.

  He asked:

  Do you want to get married?

  She rubbed her head against his shoulder.

  I wouldn’t mind being married to you.

  What! On less than a week’s acquaintance?

  As he turned to face her, she put both her arms round his neck; she said softly, defensively:

  I don’t need to know you for a long time. I know what you’re like already.

  Do you? What am I like?

  Well, you’re good-tempered . . . and one day you’ll make a huge success.

  Hmm. I dunno about the good temper.

  She pulled his face down to her. When he had kissed her, she said:

  Shall I tell you something? I decided to make a bee-line for you the first time I met you at Aunt Gertrude’s. I shouldn’t really tell you that, should I?

  Why not?

  It might make you feel chased.

  I am chaste.

  Not that chaste, silly! I mean it might make you feel you’re being chased.

  I’m that too.

  I know you are. Does it worry you?

  Not in the least. Look, sweet, I’ve got to take Oliver his dinner. Come and have some more wine.

  No. I haven’t finished this yet. Anyway, I don’t want to go in there again. I’ll say goodbye now. Don’t come down.

  As he kissed her, she pressed herself against him. He was certain she was aware of the rising need in him, yet her body clung to him, infusing its warmth. When she had gone he inhaled deeply, then expelled the air in a long sigh. He felt an ache across his chest and back, as if someone had beaten him with some padded object. The desire throbbed in him, subsiding.

  Glasp was sitting on the bed, reading one of the Notable British Trials. He began to eat quickly, ravenously. After swallowing two mouthfuls, he said, in an oddly throaty voice:

  Oaaaaah! I was bloody hungry!

  Sorme said smiling: Good.

  He was too preoccupied with the thought of Caroline to feel any inclination to talk. They ate in silence for ten minutes, and Sorme refilled both glasses. Glasp put his empty plate on the floor, and attracted his attention with a growl like an animal.

  You said you hadn’t heard about that last murder of the Ripper?

  That’s right.

  It’s here.

  Glasp swallowed, cleared his throat, then read:

  ‘In the early morning of the 18th of July 1889 an unknown woman was murdered in Castle Alley, White­chapel, her injuries being similar to those sustained by the earlier victims. At 12.15 on the morning of the murder a police constable had entered the alley and partaken of a frugal supper under a lamp. At 12.25 he left the alley to speak to another constable who was engaged on the same beat. Returning at 12.50 he found the body of a woman under a lamp where he had previously stood. The ground beneath the body was quite dry, although the clothing of the woman was wet. A shower of rain had fallen at 12.40. The murder was therefore committed between 12.25 and 12.40, when the rain commenced to fall. . . .’

  I didn’t see that, Sorme said. What book is it?

  The trial of George Chapman.

  Ah yes. I found that in the room when I moved in last Satur­day. But doesn’t it say the woman wasn’t identified?

  She was. It was my Great-aunt Sally. Sally McKenzie.

  The wine bottle was almost empty; Sorme opened a second one. Glasp relaxed against the wall, stretching his legs on the bed and yawning. He said:

  That was good. You’re bloody lucky, you know, Gerard.

  Why?

  Oh, enough money to do as you like.

  Haven’t you?

  Blimey no! My slender income comes from a bloody shark of a dealer who sucks me dry!

  Does he take all your paintings?

  No. Only the things he thinks he can sell. Like street scenes, and pretty-pretty landscapes.

  You make a living from it. That’s something.

  Not much.

  Anyway, why should my few hundred a year make me lucky? The only lucky man’s the man who can create. I’ve been stuck on the same book for five years.

  Why don’t you finish it?

  I can’t. I keep trying. There’s something missing.

  What?

  Oh . . . the inspiration, I expect.

  Is that all?

  Sorme looked at him. It was obvious that Glasp’s mood had mellowed considerably with the meal. He said:

  No, that’s not all. I’ve got other problems too.

  Such as?

  Sorme said, smiling:

  I don’t know that I can explain them to you without your flying off the handle.

  Eh? Glasp said. Me? What do you mean?

  Oh . . . such as when we were discussing the White­chapel murders earlier this evening.

  Oh, that’s different. . . .

  Not entirely. Because I can see certain aspects of myself reflected in the murderer. Can’t you?

  No. Anyway, what’s that got to do with finishing your book?

  All right. I’ll try to explain. I ask myself: Why does a man commit a sex crime? I know it’s partly sheer weakness. . . . But that doesn’t answer it. I read in a newspaper the other day that seventy per cent of the sex crimes in the States are committed by teenagers. Why is that, do you think?

  Glasp shrugged:

  Because they’ve less self-control at that age.

  Not onl
y that. Because they think they’re going to get more than they really ever get. I once read a case of a youth who was driving a lorry, and passed a girl on a lonely road. He turned the lorry round, knocked her down, and raped her in the back of his lorry. Then he dumped her body down a well and blew in the well with dynamite. They caught him eventually and electrocuted him.

  He paused, to give Glasp a chance to comment. Seeing that Sorme was looking at him, Glasp said:

  Well, it served him right, didn’t it?

  Yes, but that isn’t what strikes me about it. What impressed me is the stupidity of it, the waste, the pathos. Try to put yourself in his place. . . . Can you do that?

  I expect so.

  Supposing he’d got away with it. What would you feel after­wards, looking back on it . . . even if you weren’t afraid of detection? Wouldn’t it be the stupid gap between your motive and what you actually got out of it? He sees a desirable girl on a lonely road. Suddenly, she represents for him all the taboos and frustrations of his adolescence. He feels he ought to be allowed to possess her. You remember how, in Greek mythology, Zeus went around raping everybody—changed himself into a swan, a dove, a bull? He gave his sister Demeter a daughter, then raped the daughter too. . . . Do you see what I mean? Well, he feels just that . . . the god’s prerogative. He revolts against his limitations, he turns the lorry around. . . . But he’s not a god, and he lives in a state with laws, and the laws condemn him to death.

  Glasp had begun to grin as Sorme talked. He interrupted:

  And he’s not as intelligent as you seem to think either. Do you think he had any thoughts about Zeus and Leda when he turned his lorry round?

  No. I’m trying to get at his feelings, even if he couldn’t express them. . . .

  I know. But it’s not true. He’s probably a bloody bull-necked yokel who thinks of nothing but how many women he can screw behind the dance hall on a Saturday night. When he rapes the girl, he doesn’t feel any pity for knocking her down. He doesn’t feel that, if he’d really wanted her, he could easily have made her acquaintance and seduced her without killing her. Her life doesn’t mean anything to him, or the feelings of her family. It’s all that balanced against one stupid lust, and he lets the lust win. Can you feel any sympathy after that?

  I agree; you’re right. But it’s still not the whole truth. Listen to me. One day I was cycling along the Embankment when I saw a girl and a soldier looking at the river. It was a windy day, and suddenly her dress blew right over her head. And I tell you, I experienced a sensation like a kick in the stomach. For weeks afterwards, I got into a fever every time I thought of it.