Ritual in the Dark

  Gerard. Where have you been?

  Oh, all over the place. I’ve only just got in.

  Are you coming up here?

  No, sweet. I’m pretty tired. I want to sleep.

  You could sleep here. Shall I fetch you?

  It’s not that. I’ve got a lot to think about.

  About Austin?

  Yes. But don’t say anything on the phone. I want a few hours alone to brood about it all.

  Is Austin coming over?

  No. He just rang, and the girl said I was out. I don’t want to see him right now.

  Why?

  I’ll explain later. I may give you a ring in a few hours. I’m deadly tired now.

  All right. Have a sleep.

  See you later, sweet.

  His own room was strange to him; it seemed a long time since he had been in it. He filled the kettle and set it on the gas ring, then lit the gas-fire. Overhead, the old man was playing gramophone records. He thought: Christ, he’s started early. He glanced at the clock and realised it was not early; it was almost eight o’clock. He had eaten a meal at the workman’s café in the Kentish Town Road before coming in. It was not true that he was tired; it was an excuse for not seeing Gertrude.

  He cleared the table of its dirty cups and glasses, and covered it with a folded army blanket from the bed. This was to deaden the noise of the typewriter for the room underneath. He began to type immediately; when the kettle boiled, he turned the gas very low, and went on typing. He used quarto sheets from a folder labelled ‘Notes’. In half an hour, he had filled three of them.

  He stopped to read back; excitement was like alcohol in his blood. Before he reached the end of the three pages, someone knocked on the door. He called: Come in.

  It was Gertrude Quincey. She said:

  I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?

  Politeness made him say:

  Not at all. Come and sit down. What made you decide to come?

  She sat on the other side of the table. She was wearing a coat of light, pale fur, the colour of a teddy bear, with the high collar turned up; for a moment, she reminded him of Caroline. She said:

  I wanted to see you.

  He asked, grinning:

  Did you suspect I’d got Caroline here?

  No.

  Her deepened colour told him his guess was not completely inaccurate. He said:

  Would you like a cup of tea?

  Yes, please.

  He turned the gas-fire lower; the room was stifling. She removed her coat and dropped it on the bed. She was wearing a blue woollen skirt that he had not seen before; it looked well on her slim figure. He put his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead, saying:

  Mmm. Delicious.

  She disengaged herself and took hold of his wrists.

  What are you going to do about Austin?

  I don’t know, sweet. That’s why I wanted to be alone this evening.

  I’m sorry. . . .

  I’ll be back in a moment.

  He carried the teapot and dirty cups upstairs on a tray, and washed them at the sink. When he came back a few minutes later, she had found a cloth and was dusting the bookshelves.

  Doesn’t anyone clean your room?

  The girl’s supposed to do it once a week.

  That girl who let me in? She’s not very efficient. There’s enough fluff under the bed to stuff a mattress.

  He removed the typewriter from the table, and threw the army blanket on the bed. She grimaced at the sight of the plastic cloth underneath, with its circular stains of tea and beer.

  Have you a sponge?

  I think there’s one upstairs. But don’t bother now.

  I don’t want to keep staring at them. Up here?

  She went out of the room and up the stairs. He poured boiling water on to the tea, and turned off the gas. She returned a moment later with a damp cloth, and cleaned the marks from the cloth. Through the open door they heard the ringing of the telephone.

  Do you think that’s for you?

  Perhaps. But I’ve told the girl to say I’m out.

  Supposing it’s Austin?

  I don’t want to see Austin. Not right now.

  I see.

  She took the cloth back up to the kitchen. Sorme poured the tea. She came back and closed the door carefully, sat down.

  Why don’t you want to see him?

  Because . . . I’ve got a lot to think about.

  She said quietly:

  He is the man the police want, isn’t he?

  He met her eyes, and felt no inclination to lie about it.

  If he is, he’s still free.

  I know. The radio said so tonight.

  Said what?

  That the police had interviewed two men at Scotland Yard and let them both go.

  Mmm. Did it? That’s interesting.

  Is he the man they want?

  He knew suddenly there was no point in keeping it from her. He nodded. She sighed deeply, turning away from him. He watched her closely. She asked finally:

  You didn’t intend to tell me?

  I didn’t want to upset you.

  What do you intend to do now?

  There’s not much I can do.

  Why did you change your mind about meeting him this evening?

  He shrugged:

  I wanted time to think.

  Are you . . . deserting him?

  He said:

  Listen, sweet. I want you to try and understand this. For over a week now, I’ve suspected that Austin might be the White­chapel killer. I didn’t let it worry me. He interested me too much. I wanted to understand him, not condemn him. Well, I’ve only just begun to understand him. If I saw him now, I’d have to make him realise that I condemn him. And I’d rather not do that. I’d rather he went on thinking I’m a friend.

  Have you ceased to be his friend?

  That’s not the question. I thought this morning that I under­stood him better than the police. Now I know I was wrong.

  But Gerard . . . he’s still a human being. He needs help. He needs friends. If he’s guilty, he needs them more than ever.

  He said:

  This afternoon I went to look at the woman he killed. She was in the morgue at the London Hospital. It made me understand some things I’d never realised before.

  What?

  He leaned forward across the table, speaking with deliberation:

  There was something I hadn’t realised about Austin. He’s insane.

  Her face went pale.

  He’s not. I’m sure he’s not. . . .

  I don’t mean he’s completely dotty, like the old boy upstairs. But there’s a part of his brain that’s as rotten as a rotten apple. He’s let it get that way. He’s let himself go rotten. Do you know why he kills? Because he knows he’s suffering from a mortal disease. He’s like a man with paralysis who needs stronger and stronger stimulants. He doesn’t care any more.

  As he spoke, her face reflected first unbelief, then a kind of desperation.

  But please, Gerard, don’t you understand? If that’s true, we’ve got to stick by him. He needs it more than ever.

  What about your Bible? Thou shalt not kill?

  But the New Testament speaks about love, not about punish­ment. The law will punish him enough.

  What makes you think he’ll be punished? He knows the police have got no evidence against him. They won’t find bloodstains on his shoes, or anything like that. And he won’t confess. He loves all this. He’s glad the police have got on to his trail. He likes crossing swords with them. It’s another stimulant. He knows they’ll never have a shred of evidence against him unless they catch him in the act. There’s only one thing that worries me. . . .

  What’s that?

  He was stupidly careless last week-end. He had to phone me from Switzerland to ask me to collect some woman’s clothes from his Kensington flat. That sounds dangerously like a subconscious urge to be caught. . . .

  Whose clothes were they? r />
  I don’t know. The police mentioned some prostitute who was seen accosting him outside the Balalaika Club. Maybe she’s buried under the floor in his Kensington place.

  Her face drained of all blood; for a moment, he thought she was going to faint. He said:

  Careful, sweet. Are you all right?

  She nodded briefly, and moved from the chair to the bed. She sat on the edge, leaning against the wall.

  Are you serious . . . ?

  No. Not really. I don’t seriously think he killed the woman. He’s too careful.

  But whose clothes were they?

  Probably some he bought from a second-hand shop for the purpose. He wanted to make me a confidant. If I’d gone to the police, it wouldn’t have mattered—he’d probably have taken them to the shop where he bought them, and made some excuse about not wanting some boy-friend to discover the clothes in his flat. As it was, he was absurdly over-secretive. He didn’t have to go to Switzerland. He suspected that I might be sympathetic. He needed someone he could be open with. He chose me. He could see I was full of theories about revolt and modern civilisa­tion and the rest, and he thought I’d make the perfect confidant—provided I didn’t get too close to the reality. Unfortunately, Professor Stein—the German doctor—got the idea of showing me the body. Even then, it was almost a failure. The woman was too much of a mess to strike me as human. I’d still have come away without understanding. But there was another body in the place—a woman who’d been burnt to death. Suddenly, I realised what it meant—death by violence. Do you realise what it means? It’s a complete negation of all our impulses. It means we’ve got no future. But we’ve got to believe in the future. And it’s not just a question of my future—it’s the future of the human race. If life can just be ended like that—snuffed out—then all the talk about the dignity of man’s an illusion. It might be you or me. I suddenly understood something that I’ve seen once or twice but never grasped. If the world’s good, it’s because somehow life’s all one thing. That’s the meaning of sanity—everything’s a unity, not just life but even water and stones. And that’s why Austin’s insane. Do you realise: he needs other people, but he doesn’t really believe they exist? Life’s meaningless to him. He’s a man without a future. He can take life because he doesn’t attach any value to his own. He might as well be dead.

  She was shaking her head as he talked.

  You’re wrong. He’s not as bad as that. He’s always been spoilt and selfish, but there’s a lot of good in him. . . .

  Try to understand, sweet. He’s insane. The best thing that could happen to him now would be to go to Broadmoor.

  But . . . what are you going to do? Tell the police?

  No. I can’t do that. He trusted me.

  Why did he trust you?

  He knew I felt as he does about a lot of things. You see, I didn’t realise then that he was mad. I thought he wanted to express revolt against the way things are nowadays. I thought it was a kind of escape from personality. You know . . . things keep getting more organised. Everybody’s encouraged to fit into the machine. But the more they try to take away freedom, the more it expresses itself in violence. The more they talk about law and society, the more the crime-rate increases. People let themselves be manipulated to a certain degree—by the politicians and the advertisers—but a resentment builds up. And sex crime and juvenile delinquency and the suicide rate keep on rising steadily. Man can’t do without the irrational. He’s not a rational creature finally. He doesn’t really want a perfect civilisation and a heaven on earth.

  She said quietly:

  That’s because of original sin.

  Maybe. But I don’t like the Garden of Eden legend either. Man doesn’t want to be a sinless Adam in the Garden of Eden. He wants to be a God. Give man another chance, and he’d still eat the apple. He wants to be more than man, and he doesn’t give a damn about the misery and filth he has to wallow through. At least it proves he’s free. And that’s where I made my mistake about Austin. I thought his crimes were a gesture of defiance, like eating the apple. They weren’t. He killed for the same reason a dipso­maniac drinks—he couldn’t stop.

  He stopped talking, feeling curiously exhausted. His tea was still untouched. He leaned forward and handed her the full cup from her side of the table, then stirred his own. It was half-cold. He drank it down without lowering the cup. He said:

  Do you know why I couldn’t help Stein? Because he’s really as bad as Austin. Only he doesn’t realise it. He wants to see Austin arrested for the good of the organisation—for society. But during the war, he probably approved of exterminating the Jews for the good of the organisation. He doesn’t give a damn about human freedom either.

  He was speaking because he could see she felt stunned. It was a way of helping her adjust, like distracting someone’s attention from a burn until the pain has gone away. He said:

  I’ve learned a lot from Austin, in a way. I seem to have learned a lot altogether in this past week. For example, that there’s no point in running away. There’s poor Oliver. I tried to call on him this afternoon, and found he’d left the place—just packed up and gone. That’s his way of avoiding things he dislikes.

  She seemed to catch at the subject of Glasp as an escape from thinking about Austin.

  Oliver? Do you know where he’s gone to?

  No. He left no address. But I met this girl—Christine—the one who caused all the trouble. She’s a sweet little kid—seems rather old for her age though. I’ve promised to meet her on Saturday.

  Meet her?

  Yes. I thought I might bring her back to your place for tea? She’s obviously pretty upset about Oliver leaving. Anyway, I didn’t like to leave her with no kind of contact. I think Oliver’s a fool. She’s only a child, and he’s behaving as if she’s an adult who’s betrayed him. Typical romantic—he can’t be bothered to sort out his emotions. He’s like Austin in that respect. Instead of analysing his feelings, he reacts to them. Only Oliver’s reaction is always to hurt himself. Austin’s is to hurt other people.

  She asked slowly:

  Do you really think Austin is . . . insane?

  Yes. He’s insane.

  But would a court of law agree?

  I don’t know. I doubt it. His insanity’s not the recognisable kind.

  What do you mean?

  It’s too much like the insanity of the age. Austin told me this morning that we live in an age of murder. He understands that, all right. Shall I tell you what Austin’s like? He’s like the rats that die first in a plague. He’s been bitten by the virus. He hasn’t any resistance. He thinks it’s no good resisting. Human freedom’s disappearing, and he wants to help it on its way with a little murder. That’s why he’s insane. Insanity is when you stop resisting. If you put Austin in a mental home, he’d begin to show signs of complete insanity within a few weeks.

  Why do you say that?

  Because it’d be like taking a drug addict off the stuff. When he feels the strain, he goes out and kills. If you put him where he couldn’t kill, he’d snap.

  But . . . would he keep on . . . now, I mean?

  I think so.

  Then . . . I think we’d better do something.

  What?

  I’ll see his parents. You ought to come too. They wouldn’t believe it. They’ve got the money—they could have him put into a private mental home.

  He’d have to be certified. And the doctor would have to be told about the . . . the case history. He’d go to prison.

  No. They’ve got friends.

  She stared blankly at the fire. She said softly:

  My God . . . what a terrible thing to have to face suddenly.

  You’ve managed it.

  But . . . I’m not so close to him. And you . . . broke it gently.

  Sorme said impatiently:

  From the sound of them, they need a good shock.

  She shivered:

  No one deserves that kind of shock.

  I’m af
raid it’s inevitable now. They might get a worse shock soon. . . .

  She understood his meaning immediately.

  He wouldn’t. . . . Not now. Surely?

  Sorme said, shrugging:

  I don’t want to alarm you, sweet. But he’s quite capable of doing another one tonight out of sheer bravado. It’s become a game. That’s something I didn’t realise when I spoke to him this morning. He can’t resist a challenge.

  She looked at her watch.

  Then we ought to go immediately.

  I thought his parents lived somewhere in Shropshire?

  His father’s in town. I’ll phone him now.

  Do you really need me with you now?

  I . . . perhaps not. But I might want you later. Will you be home?

  Yes. I’ll wait here. For heaven’s sake be careful. Don’t do anything that would make us both accessories. If you phone him, don’t say anything over the phone.

  He helped her on with her coat. The look of bewilderment had gone out of her face; the prospect of immediate action seemed to restore her certainty. She opened her handbag, and put a pound note on the table.

  I’ll leave you some money. If I phone you, I may want you to take a taxi.

  I don’t need the money. I’ve got enough.

  Keep it for the moment. I may ring you in about an hour. I shall be at the Albany. If he’s not in, I’ll wait. Don’t bother to come down with me.

  She kissed him briefly on the nose, and went out. It was the first time she had offered to kiss him. He stood at the open door­way, listening to her footsteps on the stairs, then the slam of the front door. For some reason, he wanted to be certain he was alone. He poured another cup of tea, and added water to dilute it. In spite of the tiredness, he felt a curious sense of certainty, of order. It was as if he could see inside himself and watch processes that had been invisible before. There was no longer a desire for simplicity; an accumulation of self-knowledge had made it less important.

  The phone began to ring downstairs. He hesitated at the door; when the ringing continued, he went to answer it. There was no point in avoiding Austin now; he felt suspended, waiting for something to happen.

  A girl’s voice said: