Ritual in the Dark

At this time yesterday, you could have met this girl in the street.

  Sorme looked at the broken flesh, and said:

  I know you’re right. But I can’t believe it all the same.

  He looked up, and met Stein’s eyes; there was disappointment there. He said:

  I know what you want me to say. That there’s a tremendous difference between theoretical approval of a crime and the actual commission. I know that. But what’s the difference?

  He was about to say ‘What’s the difference whether I approve of Austin’s crimes or not?’, then stopped himself. Instead, he pointed to the other slab.

  What’s under there?

  Stein said shortly:

  A woman.

  May I see?

  Without waiting for permission, he lifted the sheet that covered the upper half of the body. He had half-expected to find a detective making a note of their conversation. The sight of charred flesh was a shock. He asked:

  What happened to him . . . her?

  The sight of the breasts corrected his mistake. They might have been carved out of ebony.

  She was burnt, Stein said. Her husband threw a paraffin lamp at her.

  Why?

  Stein shrugged:

  I don’t know why. They had a quarrel. Probably he was drunk.

  Who was she?

  I don’t know. I only heard what they said when they brought her in this morning. She is a married woman with three children.

  How old was she?

  In her mid-twenties. Excuse me a moment. I shall return.

  Certainly.

  He was glad to be left alone. The sight of the corpse produced no revulsion or horror; only a recognition of humanity. He pulled back the sheet from the whole body, and stared at it. It was too obviously and recognisably the body of a young woman. Where the charred flesh came to an end, the skin was burnt and raw. Fragments of clothing still adhered to her legs and arms. The fascination was one of pity and kinship. It might have been Gertrude Quincey or Caroline. The flesh had once been caressed; the body had carried children. He felt the stirring of a consuming curiosity about her. Why was she dead? Who was she? There was an absurdity in her death. How could twenty-five years as a human being lead inevitably to a mortuary slab, the breasts and smooth belly carbonised out of relevance to life? The belly and thighs were well-shaped. If she had been alive, sleeping, he would have felt the movement of desire: its failure symbolised the absurdity of her death.

  Stein came back into the room. He came and stood beside Sorme, then pulled the sheet back over the body.

  Sorme said:

  You are a romantic.

  He adjusted the sheet over the other slab. Sorme followed him to the door. Before he opened it, Stein said:

  Think about it. Which is more important. Loyalty, or . . . that?

  Sorme said gravely:

  I agree with you. But . . . there’s nothing I can do.

  Stein’s eyes, as hard as dry ice, were trying to bore into his own, to force an admission. He said:

  If you wanted, you could do a great deal.

  Sorme shrugged.

  If I wanted.

  Stein asked coldly:

  What do you mean?

  Sorme said:

  Would you answer me a question, doctor?

  Well?

  Did you support Hitler during the war?

  Stein was taken by surprise; the eyes went out of focus for a moment, then recovered. He said:

  Yes. Like seventy million other Germans.

  Sorme said:

  But you were a member of the Party. You were also a doctor. You must have had some idea of what was happening in places like Auschwitz and Belsen.

  The surprise was replaced by irritation, which was controlled immediately. Stein said stiffly:

  I fail to understand the point you are trying to make.

  Do you, doctor?

  You are suggesting that if I condoned Hitler’s crimes, I should also condone Austin’s?

  No. But I can’t understand why you should regard them as so dissimilar.

  Stein said, with a touch of harshness:

  It is untrue that I condoned Belsen and Auschwitz. We heard rumours of them—many Germans did. But we preferred to disbelieve them. There was nothing we could have done in any case. Nevertheless, Hitler’s crimes and Austin’s were different. Hitler was a political idealist. He may have been wrong, but he was not a sadist. Sexual killers were executed in Nazi Germany as they were in England.

  But why do you want to catch the White­chapel killer?

  Because I have a responsibility to society. And as a doctor I have a responsibility to humanity. Remember this: Even Hitler thought he was serving humanity by exterminating the Jews. The White­chapel murderer kills to gratify a personal lust. He knows he is serving nobody but himself.

  Sorme said mildly:

  He manages to do a great deal less damage than Hitler.

  That is beside the point.

  Sorme said:

  Then let me make my point quite clear. Father Carruthers told me you became a Nazi in nineteen thirty-three. You must have known about the methods Hitler was using—all Europe did. But you didn’t feel a duty to have Hitler arrested, or even to leave the party. Well, you tell me that if Austin is the killer, I ought to help to condemn him, as a matter of principle. I’d just like to know how your principles condone Hitler and condemn Austin. If I’m being impertinent, I apologise. But I’m afraid I can’t follow your logic.

  Stein said irritably:

  What you say is absurd. It is untrue that I condoned the concentration camps. But even if I had, it would not be a reason for you to condone sexual murder.

  Sorme said:

  Perhaps I don’t condone it. Perhaps I just happen to feel as you did about Hitler’s methods—that I just don’t want to do any­thing about it.

  Stein turned away, shrugging. He said:

  In that case, I hope you are prepared to face the consequences of being an accessory.

  He walked out of the door before Sorme could answer. Sorme followed him down the steps, closing the door behind him. He was not sorry that Stein was annoyed; it saved further argument.

  Halfway across the yard he stopped, pretending to look for something in his pockets. Stein halted at the gates of the hospital and looked back; seeing that Sorme was ten paces behind him, he shrugged and walked on. When he was out of sight, Sorme followed slowly. In the White­chapel Road, he peered into the crowd, and saw the German standing in front of a shop window, waiting. As the traffic lights changed to red, he hurried across the road with a crowd of pedestrians, then turned in the opposite direction from Stein, and walked quickly along the pavement. At the corner of Brady Street he looked back. Stein was no longer visible; a moment later, he caught a glimpse of him signalling a taxi to stop. He stood there watching, concealed by the corner, until the taxi started in the direction of the City. Then he walked along Brady Street and turned into Durward Street.

  He rang the doorbell several times, then, suspecting it was out of order, rapped with his knuckles. After another wait, he tried pushing the door. It swung open, and he found himself looking into the face of Glasp’s landlady. She said:

  Oh, it’s you. He’s not here any more.

  Not here? Sorme said. He remembered she was deaf, and leaned forward to ask: Where is he?

  You needn’t shout. He’s left. Just gone.

  Has he left any address?

  No. He says he’ll send it on.

  What about his pictures?

  They’re still there—upstairs. He’s says he’ll collect them. I ’spect he doesn’t want the police to know where he’s gone to.

  She turned her back on him, and closed the door.

  For a moment, he felt an irritable rage at her rudeness, and had to restrain a desire to kick the door. He stood still, letting it subside, then stepped back into the roadway and looked up at Glasp’s window, suspecting that Glasp might have instructed the woman to tur
n him away, and might be peering out to see if he had gone. There was no one visible; he turned away, and walked off towards Aldgate. He had only walked a few yards when someone behind him said:

  Excuse me. . . .

  He found himself looking down into the face of a girl of about twelve years old. She was muffled in a brown overcoat, with the collar around her chin. She said:

  Were you looking for Oliver Glasp?

  Yes. Do you know where he is?

  She shook her head.

  No. I wanted to see him. Do you think he’s really left?

  He asked her curiously:

  Are you Christine?

  She nodded, and her face reddened. He looked down at her with increased interest. Her hair was short and boyish, but the face was undeniably delicate and attractive. It looked pink, as if she had been running, and the flush increased its attractiveness. The eyes were wide and brown in the oval face. Sorme said:

  I saw him less than an hour ago just around the corner, so he can’t be far away.

  But his landlady says he’s gone away.

  It looks like it.

  Where do you think he might have gone to?

  That’s more than I can guess.

  Her eyes became troubled.

  Why do you think he went?

  Sorme felt suddenly guilty about the brevity of his replies; it was obvious that she suspected him of disliking her. He said:

  Oliver’s a strange man. I think he was pretty angry and upset. I saw him this morning, and he seemed miserable.

  She lowered her eyes.

  About me?

  I think so.

  He could read in her expression the curiosity about how much he knew. Her face was disturbingly open, reflecting her emotions quite clearly. He could understand suddenly why Glasp had been so upset at the notion that she was capable of deception. She asked:

  Did he tell you about it?

  Yes.

  She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other; he noticed that she was wearing ankle socks. A stirring of curtains over her shoulder attracted his attention; it was Glasp’s landlady peering out of the window at them. Sorme said:

  Which way are you walking?

  She said miserably:

  Any way.

  Walk along here with me.

  She fell into step beside him; they walked towards the ruined theatre at the other end of the street. Neither spoke while they were in Durward Street. She asked finally:

  Do you think he’ll come back?

  I don’t know. I hope so. But it might be a long time.

  They stopped on the corner of Vallance Road. A kind of baffled indignation came into her eyes as she looked at him. She said:

  But he can’t just go like that. He’d say goodbye to me . . . wouldn’t he?

  Sorme said awkwardly:

  I expect he’ll be back.

  Perhaps . . . perhaps he thinks he can’t see me.

  Sorme fed the hope that came up to him in her face.

  I expect that’s the reason. Now your parents know . . .

  But that’s all right now! Mum had it out with dad and made him agree to let Oliver come round to visit us. She said she’d leave him if he didn’t stop tormenting everybody. . . .

  Her face was pink again, this time with excitement. He noticed that she spoke carefully and well, but the indignation strengthened the London accent. He said soothingly:

  Probably he’ll write to you.

  Do you think he will? If you see him, make him write to me. I don’t want him to go away. It’s silly. It’s all right now. Tell him everything’s all right, won’t you?

  If I see him, I’ll tell him. But he might not get in touch with me either.

  She said with exasperation:

  Isn’t he silly! Why does he want to run away like that?

  He shrugged and started to make some vague reply. She interrupted:

  Is he trying to get away from you too?

  He smiled at her penetration.

  I think he’s trying to get away from everybody at the moment. He’s in one of his moods.

  Do they last long?

  He felt no inclination to admit that he had had no previous experience of them. He said:

  Oh, not too long. He’s sure to get in touch with one of his friends sooner or later.

  But that’s not me. If he doesn’t want to see me, it’s no good. . . .

  But I’ll make sure he contacts you.

  She stared at him hopefully.

  How?

  Oh . . . I’ll tell him to.

  But he might not want to.

  All right. I’ll send you his address, and you can write to him yourself.

  Will you? Would you do that? I’m sure it’d be all right if I could talk to him.

  Give me your address.

  He took out his notebook, and wrote it down as she dictated it. She asked:

  Do you think you’ll see him soon?

  I don’t know. I’m afraid it might not be for a long time.

  Oh dear. I wish I knew why he’s gone.

  He said uncomfortably:

  I think he was a bit hurt. . . .

  Her eyes regarded him doubtfully for a moment; then she said:

  About Tommy. . . . My cousin?

  He nodded. She said:

  I thought they’d tell him about that. But tell him it wasn’t my fault. Please tell him that. Make him understand, won’t you?

  I’ll try to.

  Oh please. . . . I meant to tell him about it.

  He said hastily:

  Oh, it wasn’t just that. I think all the trouble with your father and the police worried him. . . .

  She was tapping the point of her shoe on the pavement, then swinging it in short arcs around the other foot. He said uncom­fortably:

  I’m afraid I’d better go. . . .

  She said sadly:

  I suppose I might not see him again.

  He felt a flash of something like jealousy, and pulled the belt on his raincoat tighter to shake off the feeling. He said:

  No. You’ll see him again.

  But perhaps not for a long time.

  He asked:

  Will it make much difference to you?

  She nodded seriously.

  Of course. I liked talking to him. He knew such a lot . . . and he was nice. And I liked to go there.

  She looked up at him, and added, with sudden candour:

  I don’t like my brothers and sisters much.

  He thrust his hands deep into the raincoat pockets, smiling at her. He said:

  You’re lucky you haven’t got into more trouble.

  I know. But it’s worth it. I don’t mind getting into trouble. . . . But I hate being bored.

  He said:

  If you get too bored, come and see me.

  Immediately, he regretted the impulse that had made him say it, ashamed to have said it to the girl who was so important to Glasp. It was a feeling of betraying Glasp. The girl asked:

  Are you a painter?

  No.

  What, then?

  A writer.

  Do you live around here?

  I’m afraid not. I live in Camden Town.

  Is that a long way?

  Not very far.

  Oliver came for supper, didn’t he?

  That’s right.

  She said doubtfully:

  I’d like to come. But I wouldn’t have to let dad know.

  He said, smiling:

  I hope you’re not in the habit of accepting invitations to visit strange men?

  Oh no. But you’re not strange.

  Thank you. But you don’t even know my name.

  What is it?

  Gerard.

  Yes. I know about you. Oliver told me.

  He scrawled his address and telephone number on a page of his notebook, and tore it out.

  Look, take this. If you want to come, you can phone me. Do you know how to make a phone call?

  She said, with a touch
of scorn:

  Of course.

  She folded the paper carefully, and stowed it away somewhere inside the coat. He said:

  I’m afraid I’ll have to go now. Goodbye, Christine.

  Can I come on Saturday?

  Well . . . if you want to. Perhaps I’d better meet you some­where. Will you phone me before then?

  All right.

  Will you have money for the telephone?

  She nodded vigorously. He said:

  Don’t be too upset about Oliver.

  No.

  Goodbye, Christine.

  Goodbye.

  He walked towards the Aldgate tube, thinking: What an extra­ordinary child. What am I going to do with her? Could take her to Gertrude’s for tea, I suppose. Then get Gertrude to run her back in the car. My God, that damn fool Oliver! . . .

  His mind came back to Nunne with a sudden shock; for the past ten minutes, he had completely forgotten about him. For a moment, his mind held simultaneously the face of the child, and the unrecognisable face of the woman in the morgue. Disgust lurched from his stomach like a vapour of stagnation, and was succeeded by a heavy sense of pity and sadness. He found himself saying aloud:

  Poor Christine. . . .

  CHAPTER TEN

  As he was about to insert his key in the front door, the telephone started to ring. He withdrew round the edge of the wall, where his shadow would not be visible against the glass. A moment later he heard Carlotte’s voice saying:

  Hello. . . . No, he’s not in. I’ve just been up to see. I’ll tell him you rang. Yes, he’ll ring you. Goodbye.

  The bell tinkled as she hung up. He turned his key and went in. She was starting to write on the memo pad.

  Oh, Mr. Sorme. You just missed a telephone call.

  He said: I know. I wanted to miss it.

  Did you? It was Mr. Nunne. He wouldn’t leave a message.

  If anybody rings again, will you say I’m out, please?

  You don’t want to speak to anybody?

  That’s right.

  A lady rang a few minutes ago. She said you’d know who it was.

  Oh, thanks. . . .

  And you want to speak to no one?

  Please. If you don’t mind.

  Oh, I don’t mind. What if somebody comes to the door?

  I . . . I expect you’d better let them up. I’ll say I’ve just come in. I’m pretty tired. I’m going to sleep now.

  She smiled sympathetically.

  All right. I’ll tell them you are out.

  She went downstairs. He found four pennies in his pocket and dialled Miss Quincey. She answered immediately. She must have been standing close to the phone.