Ritual in the Dark

  How did you feel?

  Nunne was staring at his hands again. He said slowly:

  I can give you an idea. When I killed that coloured prostitute I felt an immense exaltation. I felt like a prophet cleansing the world, like Jesus throwing the money-changers out of the Temple. And when she was lying on the ground, I had to suppress an urge to shout and bring the whole street to look at her. I wanted to say: Look, she’s dead. She’s an example to the world. . . .

  He looked up suddenly, and caught the look of fascinated horror on Sorme’s face. Somehow, he was not the same person; his face and eyes seemed darker; he reminded Sorme of a gypsy he had known as a child. He said sadly:

  I know. You don’t understand. You can’t.

  Sorme said:

  No. . . . I understand a little. Was she the first?

  Nunne stared back at him; his eyes were bolder now, and somehow depthless.

  No. But . . . I don’t want to talk about that.

  All right. . . . What do you want to talk about?

  The problem of what I’m going to do.

  What do you want to do?

  I don’t know. You see. . . . I’ve let this impulse grow stronger. And today I feel quite cleansed of it—as if it had gone for good. Perhaps it has gone for good.

  The hope was there; Sorme could see it clearly. It would have been impossible to counterfeit. Sorme said quietly:

  Because of last night?

  Nunne nodded.

  Because of last night. Do you know something, Gerard? Last night, for the first time, I felt suddenly disgusted with myself. It seemed stupid and pointless. And all the way back here I was thinking: If I’m not caught this time, that’s the last time. It won’t happen again. . . .

  And do you mean that?

  I think so. I don’t know. You see, Gerard, I still want to do something else. I’m still certain I could do something good, something important. Don’t you think so? It’s the same urge—the need to let something out of yourself.

  Sorme said:

  Look, forgive me if this question’s stupid. I’d like to ask it all the same. Supposing everything turns out as you want it to. Supposing you go back to London and the police don’t arrest you and you start a new life. Wouldn’t you ever think back on . . . the past? Would you feel it had been written off and closed?

  I don’t know. I think so.

  You don’t feel—well, pangs of conscience . . . ?

  What’s the point? It’s done now. And if the urge has gone for good, then it wasn’t all meaningless. . . .

  But what about the women?

  Nunne shrugged:

  Pooh, a few prostitutes. Women who’d sold their lives, any way. Do you know what the woman last night said to me? ‘I suppose you might be Leather Apron.’ She knew I might be.

  I suppose she didn’t believe it.

  She knew it was possible. She just didn’t care. If you’d found some loathsome worm in a meat-pie, you’d stop eating that brand of meat-pie, wouldn’t you? And if you carried on eating them, it would prove you didn’t really care.

  Or that I was too hungry not to eat them.

  No. These women aren’t too poor to give it up. They could live better as shop assistants or hosiery workers. They just don’t care.

  But why kill them because they don’t care?

  Nunne said with a kind of exasperation:

  I don’t know. I don’t know why I want to do it.

  He made a movement of his hand towards his stomach:

  It’s something in here. I feel sometimes that I could take an emetic and get rid of it all. It’s like periodic malaria. But try to understand, Gerard. It’s not just a disease. It’s an excitement. It’s a kind of inverted creative impulse. I feel as if I’m serving something greater than myself. It’s . . . it’s like a need . . . to build.

  He made a vague shape in the air with his two hands. He laughed suddenly, and it startled Sorme. It was an easy laugh; there was a gaiety in it.

  You see, there’s even a sort of dramatic impulse behind it, a playwright’s desire for climaxes. Don’t you see?

  Sorme nodded. He said slowly:

  You mean . . . the newspapers ask if the killer’s moved to Greenwich—and immediately, there’s a double murder? And a man’s arrested, and everybody heaves a sigh of relief. And there’s another murder. . . .

  Nunne was suddenly serious.

  In a way, yes. But Gerard . . . if only I could feel it had gone out of me. For good. This thing has driven me . . . for three years now.

  Since Hamburg?

  Nunne looked surprised.

  Yes. Hamburg. How did you know?

  Father Carruthers again, Stein told him.

  Nunne said shortly:

  I thought they suspected.

  Wasn’t it a man in Hamburg?

  A youth. Male prostitute.

  He was the first?

  Nunne nodded.

  And . . . why did you feel the need . . . ?

  Nunne said, shrugging:

  Don’t know. You wouldn’t understand.

  I might. Did you hate him?

  No. On the contrary. I loved him . . . a little.

  And why weren’t you caught?

  Because no one knew he’d been with me. He had a lot of clients.

  But . . . what did you do with him?

  Are you really interested?

  Yes.

  I’ll tell you. I dumped him in a bath of ice-cold water—it was midwinter in Hamburg—and left him there for an hour. Then I carried him up three flights of stairs, and left him in the room of a man whom I knew to be away for the night. He came in at five in the morning and roused the hotel. Then a doctor examined the body, and decided from its temperature that he’d been killed at least eight hours before. And I had an alibi up till two in the morning. So I was allowed to leave the hotel the next day. It was a pretty low dump, anyway, and that was its second murder in a month.

  Wasn’t it all pretty dangerous? You might have been seen taking him upstairs.

  That’s true. That was dangerous. And the man in the next room heard me running the bath water at three in the morning; he mentioned it to me the next day. Luckily, I’d taken great care not to wet the hair. But it was dreadfully dangerous.

  Nunne was speaking with a certain pride; he might have been telling Sorme a fishing story. Sorme glanced at his watch; it was one-thirty. He had been there about an hour. In that time, Nunne’s demeanour had changed completely. He no longer seemed drunk; he talked with a clinical precision; his voice was calm and cheerful. The whisky had affected Sorme; he was aware of being more than half-drunk, while feeling no loss of his power to concentrate. He felt a curious acceptance of Nunne; it was no more strange that Nunne should be a murderer than that he should be a homosexual; or that Gertrude Quincey should be his mistress. Things altered; the world was a perpetual flux. There was no finality in space or time; only an immense, un­measurable freedom.

  Nunne said:

  Tell me what you’re thinking, Gerard?

  That wouldn’t be easy. I can begin to understand . . . but there are still some pieces missing.

  Such as . . . ?

  Wouldn’t you prefer to be . . . normal? Or . . .

  Nunne interrupted quickly:

  Of course I would. But don’t overestimate my abnormality. I suppose a hangman’s job is abnormal, but he treats it as a job all the same. So does a man in a slaughter-house. I know a man who spent the war training teenage boys how to kill easily and silently. I’ve known Commandos who have killed more Germans than they can count. One of them always goes to Germany for his holidays and says he prefers the Germans to any other race in Europe.

  Sorme said gloomily:

  You mean murder’s a part of the modern mentality?

  Of any mentality, Gerard. Society has always been based on murder. It’s no use trying to outlaw murder with laws and moral codes. It has to disappear of its own accord—men have to out­grow it. Don’t you see w
hat I mean? My Commando friend—he’s a perfectly law-abiding citizen. But murder’s still in his system. If there was another war, he’d kill again. He hasn’t outgrown murder. It’s only that he accepts the laws that forbid it. That isn’t the way for a man to grow. . . . You think I’m being a Jesuit?

  Sorme said dubiously:

  Not a Jesuit. But your defence wouldn’t go down in any court of law. . . .

  I agree, Nunne said promptly. And I wouldn’t expect it to. It’s not really a defence. I don’t disown what I’ve done. How can I? I don’t even understand it. I was born like it.

  I know. . . . But what I don’t understand is . . . well, why you should do it. I can understand everything but the act itself. I can understand the hatred and the disgust. I once wrote a story about a man who kills out of sheer boredom and the desire to do something positive. But . . . the reasons aren’t so important. You don’t kill reasons. You kill a human being.

  Nunne said seriously:

  That’s true, in a way. But it isn’t as rational as that. It’s a kind of irrational resentment, I suppose. Not about people, or even society, but just about . . . the world.

  He was not looking at Sorme as he spoke. His face was averted, and Sorme could see mainly the top of his head, and the heavy black hair that had been newly washed. A speculation about the reason for this passed through his mind, and a feeling of a chill. The conversation suddenly became unreal; he made a mental effort to restore it to focus. He said:

  I think I understand you. I’ve known that kind of disgust. About three months before I left the office for good, I went on a holiday in Kent, and had an experience of the same sort.

  His face still averted, Nunne said:

  What happened?

  Oh . . . I’d been getting pretty sick of the office. It made me feel dead inside. Finally, the week-ends weren’t long enough to get it out of my system. I couldn’t read poetry or listen to music. It was like being constipated. Well, I got a holiday and went to Kent for a week’s hiking. And for the first two days I felt nothing at all, just a sort of deadness inside. And one day I went into a pub in a place called Marden and had a couple of pints. And as I came out, a sort of bubble seemed to burst inside me, and I started feeling things again. And I suddenly felt an overwhelming hatred for cities and offices and people and everything that calls itself civilisation. . . .

  He was talking compulsively, glad to speak of himself and restore a feeling of normality to the situation:

  Then I got an idea. I sat down at the side of the road and thought about it. I’d read somewhere that the Manichees thought the world was created by the devil, and everything to do with matter was evil. Well, it suddenly seemed to me that the forces behind the world weren’t either good or evil, but something quite incomprehensible to human beings. And the only thing they want is movement, everlasting movement. That’s the way I saw it suddenly. Human beings want peace, and they build their civilisations and make their laws to get peace. But the forces behind the world don’t want peace. So they send down certain men whose business is to keep the world in a turmoil—the Napoleons, Hitlers, Genghis Khans. And I called these men the Enemies, with a capital E. And I thought: I belong among the Enemies—that’s why I detest this bloody civilisation. And I suddenly began to feel better. . . .

  Nunne was looking at him now, and nodding his head slowly as he talked. He said, smiling:

  Quite. You understand too. The force behind the world is neither good nor evil. Men are not big enough to know anything about good and evil. That’s how I felt . . . the first time it ever happened in London. I’d been to see Father Carruthers and I came away feeling sick of everything. He obviously didn’t know what I was talking about. And I walked along Charterhouse Street, and there was an extraordinary sunset over the roof-tops. And suddenly I detested it all. Did you ever read that piece in Stein’s book on Kürten, about how Kürten used to dream of blowing up the whole city with dynamite? That was how I felt.

  He stopped abruptly, and twisted his fingers together. He bent both hands backwards, making the joints crack. His voice had begun to sound curiously thick as he talked. Sorme watched him closely, sensing the tightness that was coming up inside him. Nunne stood up suddenly and went to the table. He poured half an inch of whisky into the tumbler, and tossed it back. When he spoke again, his voice sounded choked:

  I can’t explain the feeling . . . but you understand.

  Sorme said:

  Yes, I understand.

  He said it to reassure Nunne rather than because he under­stood.

  Nunne stood with his back to him for a few seconds longer, holding the empty glass. He turned around and ran his fingers through Sorme’s hair. He was smiling again. He said:

  I wish you did understand, Gerard.

  He sat down again; this time on the edge of the chair, his fists resting on his knees. Although the room was now becoming cool, his face was sweating. Sorme said:

  I think I do understand, Austin. But . . . you know . . . you’ll have to stop it. If you stop now, you might be safe. But if you don’t . . . nothing can save you.

  Nunne said: I know. That’s the problem.

  Sorme leaned forward. He said:

  But do you understand it? You’re alive now. In two months’ time you might be waiting in the death-cell. They’d hang you, Austin. They’d have to hang you. They wouldn’t dare to commit you to a mental home. Get away while you can. Go to Switzer­land. Find a good psychiatrist and pay him five thousand pounds and tell him everything. But don’t stay in London.

  Nunne looked up and smiled, but the exhaustion was back. He said:

  I know you’re right, Gerard.

  He cleared his throat, and ran both hands through his hair. He began to button up his shirt.

  I’m very grateful, Gerard. . . .

  Nonsense.

  I don’t deserve a friend like you.

  Sorme said:

  Don’t be silly.

  Nunne stood up.

  I suppose we’d better go.

  As he spoke, they heard the noise; it was the sound of some metal object being knocked over outside. For a moment, they stared at one another. Sorme glanced towards the window. He said quickly.

  That could be the police.

  As he spoke, there was a sound of knocking on the door. Nunne said:

  I’m afraid you were followed.

  I’m sorry. . . .

  It doesn’t matter.

  He opened the door leading to the hall. Sorme caught up with him and grasped his arm. He said quietly:

  Don’t give anything away.

  Nunne turned and smiled at him. It was the calm, sardonic smile that Sorme associated with his first meeting with him, the total certainty of superiority. Nunne said:

  Don’t worry, dear boy. You be careful.

  He went out to the door. A moment later, Sorme recognised Macmurdo’s voice.

  Mr. Austin Nunne?

  Yes. What can I do for you?

  We’d like to speak to you, if we may. I am a police officer.

  Certainly. Come in. I’ve been expecting you.

  Sorme could almost see the eagerness on Macmurdo’s face. A moment later, he came into the room, followed by the sergeant and Nunne. He was saying:

  Indeed? Why?

  Nunne said:

  Because my friend here came especially to tell me to contact you.

  Sorme was still sitting down. He nodded briefly at Macmurdo.

  How do you do?

  Macmurdo said:

  I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you had no idea where Mr. Nunne might be?

  Sorme said pleasantly:

  I hadn’t. I’ve been looking systematically.

  Macmurdo’s disbelief was obvious. He said:

  I see.

  He turned to Nunne.

  Mr. Nunne, would you mind telling me where you were last night?

  Certainly. I was here.

  All night?

  No. I went out
for a breath of air . . . just a drive around.

  At what time?

  Oh . . . as a matter of fact, I don’t know. After midnight. My portable radio gave out.

  How long were you out?

  Oh . . . about two hours, perhaps.

  Where was your car parked?

  In the lane outside.

  When did you leave it outside the Crown Hotel in Leatherhead?

  Nunne sat down on the edge of the table. His face was grave and concentrated.

  This morning. I went in to buy a newspaper. And it was such a lovely day that I decided to walk back. I’d had some coffee. . . .

  Macmurdo interrupted belligerently:

  You know why I’m asking these questions, don’t you?

  I think so, Nunne said.

  Why?

  You are investigating the White­chapel murders. You want to clear me for your list of suspects.

  Sorme could see Macmurdo’s irritation growing with the confidence of Nunne’s replies. The sergeant was standing by the door, watching with interest. Macmurdo said:

  Do you mind if we look around the house?

  Nunne asked smoothly:

  Have you a warrant?

  No. But we can soon get one.

  Nunne said quickly:

  Oh, not at all. Please do look, by all means.

  The sergeant went out of the room. A moment later, Sorme heard more men coming in from outside. Macmurdo seated himself in the chair Nunne had vacated. He asked Sorme:

  And may I ask how you got here?

  By car. Miss Quincey—Austin’s aunt—drove me down.

  How did you know Mr. Nunne was here?

  Why, we had a long talk after you’d gone and tried to decide where he might be. Finally, she remembered this place. . . .

  Where is she now?

  In the Crown Hotel.

  For the first time, Sorme felt alarm. He felt no fear for himself or Nunne, but Gertrude was a different proposition. He felt a pang of regret for telling her about Nunne. But she knew very little. Even if she admitted . . .

  A plain-clothes policeman came into the room and beckoned to Macmurdo; Nunne’s eyes met Sorme’s for a moment as the Inspector went out of the room. A moment later, he came back.

  Would you mind telling me, Mr. Nunne, why the fireplace upstairs is full of warm ashes?