Ritual in the Dark

  . . . . .

  She looked pleased to see him.

  Come and get warm. I’ve been expecting you.

  Really? Why?

  I just rang you up. The girl told me you’d left a telephone number, and when I asked for it it turned out to be mine!

  He said, chuckling:

  That must have been a pleasant surprise!

  There was a coal fire burning in the sitting-room. The curtains were drawn, and the lamplight gave the room an atmosphere of warmth. He was suddenly glad he had come.

  Where’s Oliver today?

  Oh . . . at home, I suppose. What did Brother Robbins think of him?

  Oh . . . he thought he was a Communist. But he liked you.

  Sorme said: Hmmm.

  She asked, smiling:

  You didn’t like him much, did you?

  Not much. Do you?

  He’s a very good man. He does a great deal of social work besides his work for us.

  She saw Sorme’s grimace as she said ‘us’, and coloured. She asked:

  Why didn’t you like Brother Robbins?

  Sorme said:

  I didn’t dislike him particularly. But I can’t imagine why you’re mixed up with that bunch. I don’t mind intelligently religious people. But anybody can see he’s as crack-brained as a flat-earther.

  She said, shrugging:

  It’s true he’s not particularly intelligent. But he’s kind-hearted, and that’s the main thing.

  I suppose so. But what’s to stop you becoming a Catholic or a Baptist if that’s all that matters? You’ll find just as many kind people there, I expect.

  I can tell you in one sentence. I can’t stand churches.

  No?

  No. I don’t know why. When I was a little girl, I used to be sick in church.

  And is that the only reason you’re a Jehovah’s Witness?

  Of course not. But it’s the reason that I wasn’t a member of any other congregation before I became a Witness.

  But surely the Witnesses have a sort of a church—Kingdom Hall, or whatever they call it?

  Yes.

  Don’t you go there?

  Not often. Twice a year perhaps. I go to prayer meetings at the houses of other members—and of course I hold them here.

  Sorme looked at her face, lit by the flames, and became aware of her as a different personality; she seemed younger, and also weaker. A kind of understanding was forming in him.

  But you didn’t feel the same aversion for the Bible?

  Oh no. At least, I did as a girl. Or I should say, I was in­different to it. I could never understand why they had to say ‘art’ instead of ‘are’ and things like that. And once I got slapped by my nurse when she thought I was making fun of the Bible. I wanted to know why it was always talking about people ‘arising’. ‘He arose and went to the land of Uz.’ I said it made it sound as if the ancient Hebrews were sitting down all the time, and it was quite an event when they stood up.

  Sorme said, laughing:

  You sound as if you had quite a sense of humour!

  No. I was serious.

  The telephone began to ring. She went out to answer it, and called a moment later:

  It’s for you.

  He said:

  Good. That’ll be Austin.

  No, it’s Oliver.

  Oliver!

  He went to the phone and said:

  Hello, Oliver.

  Glasp’s voice sounded muffled.

  Listen, Gerard, can you help me? I’m in trouble.

  What sort of trouble?

  I’m in Commercial Street police station. I’m under arrest.

  What the hell for?

  Oh . . . it’s about Christine. Her father’s laid a complaint against me.

  What’s the charge?

  Seducing a minor.

  But . . . but that’s insane! I mean . . . they can’t have any evidence. They’ve only got to examine her to find it’s nonsense.

  Glasp said:

  I know, but in the meantime I’m in gaol. And Christine’s run away, so I shall probably be stuck here till they find her.

  Blimey! What a bloody nuisance. Can’t something be done?

  Yes. You could get me out if you could lend me the twenty-five pounds bail. Or if you couldn’t, I’m pretty sure Father Carruthers would.

  Right. Just hold on. I’ll be right over with the money. See you in an hour. Twenty-five pounds.

  Thanks a lot, Gerard. I don’t want to spend longer in this dump than I have to.

  Miss Quincey came out of the kitchen, saying:

  Twenty-five pounds? What does he want that for?

  She was carrying a tea-tray with a teapot on it.

  Bail. He’s in the White­chapel police station.

  What on earth for?

  He’s charged with seducing a minor. Have you got twenty-five pounds in cash here?

  No. . . . Seducing a minor?

  It’s nonsense, of course. Actually, it’s some little girl he’s taken an interest in. He thinks she has artistic talent. Her father’s a habitual drunk and he’s trying to cause trouble. The charge’ll collapse as soon as she’s been examined by a doctor. . . . I wonder if the police would take a cheque?

  I . . . I know someone who’d probably cash one. But how preposterous! Oliver really ought to be a little careful. Do you have to go immediately? Come and have a cup of tea first.

  He followed her into the sitting-room. She said:

  Have you got twenty-five pounds?

  Well . . . not really. But Oliver thinks Father Carruthers could lend it to him.

  The Catholic priest? But I doubt whether he’d have that much money in cash. I’d better lend it to him, I think.

  That’d be very sweet of you. You’d get it back, of course.

  I know someone who lives near here who could probably cash a cheque. But how silly of Oliver!

  While he drank the tea, he outlined what Glasp had told him the night before. She listened gravely; when he spoke of the child posing, she commented:

  That was stupid!

  He said:

  I can understand Oliver’s motive. He’s a lonely person. He needs people.

  She stood up.

  I’m going to phone a solicitor friend of mine. He usually keeps some spare cash in the house for emergencies like this.

  He drank another cup of tea while she phoned. She was speak­ing for a long time. He built up the fire, squatting on the rug, thinking: Why do all my friends seem to get involved in violence? And why do I loathe violence so much? Is it cowardice or laziness?

  She said:

  I’ve talked to my friend about it. I’m afraid Oliver is in rather a bad position. Even if the girl is still a virgin, they can accuse him of attempted rape. In that case, it all depends on the child’s word. If there was any suggestion that he made advances to her while she was posing, he’d almost certainly go to prison.

  Sorme shrugged, concealing his misgivings. He said:

  That’s all right. From what Oliver told me there couldn’t be the faintest breath of such an idea.

  I hope you’re right. If you go down to Hampstead Heath station you’ll find this solicitor’s address just opposite. His name is Pettiford. I’ll write his address down for you. He’ll give you the twenty-five pounds. Will you come back here afterwards?

  All right.

  Here’s the address. Go down East Heath Road as far as South End Green, and you can’t miss it.

  . . . . .

  Glasp looked dishevelled and exhausted. He came into the office escorted by a policeman. He said:

  Thank God you’re here, Gerard.

  Sorme was surprised by the warmth and gratitude of his smile. He said:

  Sorry I’m late.

  He asked the sergeant:

  Can we go now?

  Yers. But your friend’ll have to stay where we can contact him. Otherwise you might lose your money.

  Thank you, Sorme said automatically.

/>   As they left the police station, a man approached them. Sorme noticed that Glasp shrank away nervously. The man thrust a sheet of paper into Sorme’s hand, saying:

  Take one.

  Thank you.

  One for your friend.

  Sorme glanced at the duplicated sheet of foolscap as they crossed the road. It was headed: Justice for the people of White­chapel! The message was short:

  ‘The man who may be the killer of six women is now in the hands of the police. The idle rich and the dirty bourgeoisie hope that he will be declared insane, and they will pay “trick cyclists” to try to defeat the ends of justice. But it is the people of White­chapel who have suffered, and the people of White­chapel who should have the last say. Bentley should hang! If we stand firm, all the psychiatrists in the world won’t get him off. Forewarned is forearmed!’

  Sorme said:

  What a bloody odd farrago! Why on earth should the idle rich want him declared insane?

  Glasp screwed his sheet up and dropped it into the gutter, shrugging irritably. He said:

  The world’s full of people who should be behind bars—in a zoo! They’re no better than animals.

  Sorme dropped his own sheet of paper into a waste-bin attached to the railings of the Wren church.

  What do you intend to do now, Oliver? Gertrude says you can go and stay there if you like.

  Glasp said sarcastically:

  That’s very kind of her.

  She lent me the money.

  Did she? Did you have to tell her about it?

  I’m afraid I did. . . .

  Glasp shrugged ill-naturedly.

  So long as she doesn’t sick her Come-to-Jesus pals on to me.

  But where do you intend to go now?

  Where do you think? Back home.

  And . . . would you rather I . . . left you now?

  Why? Glasp said with surprise. He laughed suddenly, and laid his hand on Sorme’s shoulder for a moment.

  Sorry if I seem irritable. It’s the bloody police, and that swine of a father. . . . I’d take great pleasure in killing the bastard. When this is all over I’m going to consult a solicitor and see if I can’t sue him for defamation of character. . . .

  How long have you been there?

  In the police station? Since about nine this morning. Then they got hold of some senior copper to see about bail. You remember I told you about the fight I had with her father? Well, the same policeman was there today. So it lent colour to my story about his grudge.

  But where’s Christine?

  I don’t know. I haven’t seen the father. I only gather that Christine’s not to be found. She’s probably hiding somewhere.

  When did all this blow up?

  Last night, I suppose.

  But why? You told me he’d threatened to take her to a doctor before, and it had all blown over.

  You can’t tell with people like that. He’s a drunk. Perhaps he had a quarrel with his wife, or somebody told him they’d seen Christine leaving my place. It could be anything.

  You know he could accuse you of attempted seduction, even if the doctor reports she’s still a virgin?

  Glasp said:

  So what? They’ve only got to ask Christine.

  But . . . you didn’t tell them about the posing?

  No.

  Do you think they know?

  I don’t expect so. Why should they? She wouldn’t tell them.

  But supposing she got upset and frightened? Children do, you know.

  What if she did? So long as she told the truth, I’ve nothing to worry about.

  No. . . . I suppose so. You really need a solicitor.

  I don’t see why. It’ll all be settled when they examine her.

  When did she run away?

  This morning. She’s a silly kid. . . . Last night her father told her he was going to take her to see a doctor this morning. Her mother’s away, I think. So she slipped out early this morning. Naturally, he thinks she’s got something to hide. So he went to the police.

  But how could they arrest you without any evidence?

  Because he laid a complaint. I think he told them she’d ad­mitted something.

  What! You mean that you’d . . .

  Quite. He was probably drunk when he asked her.

  Perhaps he hurt her and made her shout anything to get away.

  Sorme was surprised at the detachment in Glasp’s voice; there was none of the rage he expected.

  But in that case . . . you might be able to charge him with false accusation later. You ought to get a solicitor.

  Glasp said, shrugging:

  And pay him with bottle-tops?

  It wouldn’t cost much. And I’m sure Father Carruthers or Gertrude would lend you the money. . . .

  I’ll think about it, Glasp said.

  Sorme felt he was trying to keep him quiet. He said:

  All right. That’s up to you.

  They had arrived at Glasp’s address in Durward Street. As he started to insert the key the door opened. Sorme had the impression that the old woman must have been hiding behind it. She said:

  Oh, it’s you. I thought you were in gaol.

  Glasp leaned forward, and shouted in her ear:

  No. It’s all right now.

  Oh, it’s all right, is it? Why have they let you out?

  I can’t explain now, Glasp bellowed. He pushed into the front room and closed the front door behind them. The old woman shouted:

  I can’t have this sort of thing in my house. I’m only an old woman all on my own, but I can’t have that sort of thing in my house.

  Have the police been here? Glasp shouted.

  The police? Yes, they’ve been here. You’ll have to go. I can’t have it. . . .

  Glasp turned to Sorme, saying quietly:

  Go on upstairs while I explain to this bloody old cow. . . .

  As Sorme went up the uncarpeted stairs, smelling the familiar paraffin odour, he heard the old woman shouting:

  I’ve never had trouble with the police before. . . .

  Glasp shouted back:

  It’s not my fault. I can explain. . . .

  He let himself into Glasp’s room and closed the door. It was damp and cold. He found matches on the window-sill, and lit the oil-stove and the gas-ring. He found Glasp’s kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the gas. A few minutes later Glasp came in. He said:

  Those f—ing cops have been in here searching the place.

  What? But surely they can’t do that without a warrant? Did they have a warrant?

  No. They just asked the old woman’s permission. It’s her house.

  But it’s your room. I’m sure they’re not allowed to do that. You ought to get a solicitor.

  Glasp sank on to the stool, warming his hands above the oil-stove. He said gloomily:

  The old bugger wants me to move out. That bloody father of Christine’s! . . . I’d like to kill him. Why can contemptible animals like that make such a mess of my life?

  Never mind. It’s just a farce. . . . But why should they search your room? What would they expect to find?

  Christine, of course.

  Oh yes.

  Glasp said bitterly:

  Or maybe her body. I don’t think they put anything past me.

  He began to wander round the room, peering at canvases. He said suddenly:

  Oh, Christ!

  What is it?

  This portrait of Christine. . . . I’d forgotten it.

  Sorme remembered in time that he was not supposed to have seen the picture. He crossed to Glasp, and looked at the portrait of the underfed child. Glasp had pulled several canvases forward to expose it; they leaned against his shin.

  Do you think they saw it?

  I don’t know?

  I doubt it. Why should they? If they were looking for her they wouldn’t examine your pictures.

  Glasp opened a cupboard and took out a large folder made of brown paper. He laid this on the bed and opened it.
Sorme deliberately refrained from showing curiosity, although he caught a glimpse of a sketch of a naked child. He asked:

  Is there any sign that they’ve seen it?

  Glasp peered closely at the pages.

  Not as far as I can see. But I wouldn’t expect the police to leave finger-marks.

  Glasp closed the album with an exclamation of disgust. He dropped on to the edge of the bed and sighed. His big hands hung loosely between his knees. He said between his teeth:

  F—ing swine.

  The kettle began to simmer. Sorme emptied the teapot into the sink and rinsed it with warm water. He found the tea on the shelf, in a packet with the top screwed round. While he made it, Glasp began to go around the room systematically, looking for signs of disturbance. He said at last:

  They’re bloody clever. They’ve left no traces.

  Have some tea.

  Glasp lay down on the bed, pushing the folder aside, and closed his eyes. With his bony face upturned to the ceiling, and the big hands resting limply on the coverlet, he looked like a corpse. Sorme said quietly:

  Poor Oliver. I know just how it feels. Why can’t things be simple and straightforward?

  Glasp’s chest heaved with a kind of laugh that was little more than an expulsion of breath. He said:

  No, you’re wrong. I don’t want things simple. That’s not me. I don’t know what I want. If my life was simple, I’d be like a fish out of water. I once knew an actress like that. She had to manu­facture complications in her life. All her love affairs had to be messy. If they went wrong, she was all right. If they went right, she felt there was something wrong.

  I think you’re doing yourself an injustice, Oliver.

  Glasp sat up, saying tiredly:

  Thank God for my friends. They never let me think the worst of myself.

  Sorme noticed the bundle of wood that lay in the fire-grate.

  You ought to get yourself some coal, Oliver. You need a fire in here.

  There is coal. It’s outside the door. I was just making a fire when the police arrived.

  Let me make one for you.

  Glasp said:

  Thanks, Gerard.

  He took a gulp of the tea, then lay down on the bed again, his eyes closed. Sorme found a coal-scuttle outside the door and a bucket containing ashes. He laid the fire and started it with paraffin; in a few minutes the flames were roaring up the chimney. He crouched over it. The cold of the room had pene­trated his overcoat. Glasp was lying in his shirt-sleeves, the collar unbuttoned.