Ritual in the Dark (34 page)

They drank the wine like beer, in long pulls. Jimmy said abruptly:

Trouble with British writers, you don’t kick enough.

Kick who? Sorme asked.

Anybody. F’rinstance—what you writing now?

A novel.

About what?

A sexual killer.

They looked impressed. Cal said:

That’s a good subject. Why d’you want to write about it?

To make money.

Well, why not, Jimmy said. ‘S a good reason.

He looked puzzled. Nunne said, smiling:

He’s pulling your leg.

Jimmy smiled, broadly and candidly:

Oh yeah? Well, it’s still a good reason. But seriously, you really writing about a sex killer?

Yes.

Cal leaned forward.

Do you know any?

Certainly, Sorme said. Several. Me and Austin, to begin with. Perhaps you and Jimmy. I don’t know.

He’s right, Jimmy said unexpectedly. He’s got you there, Cal. You don’t need to know one. It could be anybody.

Is that what you’re gettin’ at? Cal asked.

Suppressing a strong desire to get up and leave, Sorme said:

No. Not really.

What, then?

He decided to make the best of it; after a moment’s thought, he said:

I want to isolate the modern sense of dispossession. The sense of being left in the cold. Of not having enough of life. Do you know what I mean?

Do we! Cal said.

Jimmy said excitedly: Sure, I know what you mean. Like a guy I knew in S.F., spent most of his life in reformatories and gaols, and you couldn’t hold him still. His favourite diversion was landing his girl friends with babies. That way he felt he was making the best of it. That boy wanted to eat and drink his freedom. . . anything for kicks; he had to keep moving, doing things, drinking, smoking tea, laying sweeties. That boy wanted a past to look back on next time he landed in gaol.

He turned to Nunne, saying:

Didj’ever read Thomas Wolfe? There was a dispossessed man for you. . . ‘Scuse me, man, I just gotta go to the can. Where they keep it in this place?

Nunne directed him; they watched the two of them crossing the room together, talking excitedly, attracting attention from most other diners in the room. Nunne said:

What do you think of them?

They tire me out. I’d like to get home.

Really? You’re being very antisocial today. And they like you. I can tell.

I like them. But they don’t know how to make conversation. There’s no attempt to get in tune. They just fire questions and comments at you like a machine-gun. And they seem to imagine that it’s all getting them somewhere interesting. I couldn’t resist talking about dispossession. They’re about the worst examples I’ve ever seen.

You’re being a little premature, you know. Cal has some rather interesting views on mysticism. He became a Mohammedan a few years ago. . . By the way, are you serious about writing this novel?

No. I invented it on the spur of the moment. You can’t talk seriously about your work like that, at five seconds’ notice.

Nunne said reprovingly:

You’re not sufficiently interested in people, you know, Gerard. I’ve noticed it in you before.

Maybe, Sorme said noncommittally. The Americans were returning, Jimmy walking with the exaggerated ape-slouch, and still talking and gesturing. As soon as Jimmy sat down, he asked:

D’you ever try Yoga?

Not seriously, Sorme said.

Pity. You ought to try that. Cal used to practise it—the soofi method, it was called. I used to know a guy here in London who did it too. . . boy, he was really whacky, used to shoot himself full of coke, then sit like a screwball on his can for days.

Sorme began to scrape at the label of the empty wine bottle with his fingernail, wondering how to excuse himself quickly. He was feeling the beginning of a mental exhaustion that interfered with his digestion. Before he could invent a reason for leaving, he caught a name, and looked up quickly:

Did you say Glasp?

Yeah. You know him?

Oliver Glasp, the painter?

Jimmy said: I dunno whether this guy painted, and I can’t remember his first name. But he was a real screwball.

It could be the same one, Sorme said. It’s an unusual name.

Could be. This was five years ago. He was a bit of a pervert, too.

Was he? How?

Oh, he had a thing about little girls. . . always talking about them. We all reckoned he’d finish up in stir.

Could it be Oliver? Sorme asked Nunne.

I doubt it. By the way, Gerard, you ought to go soon if you’re supposed to be taking a phone call at half past two.

Sorme looked at him with gratitude. He said:

Yes, I suppose I ought. I’m sorry to have to leave.

Let’s meet again afterwards, Jimmy said. I’d like to talk some more about this dispossession idea.

I can’t make it today, I’m afraid. . . but Austin could arrange it easily. . .

To his surprise, they both stood up and shook hands with polite formality when he left. He hurried out into Greek Street with a sense of relief. It had begun to rain.

*
  
*
  
*

He walked into the rain, his coat collar turned up, oblivious of the people who hurried past him on the narrow pavements. A Negro woman tried to accost him at the junction of Shaftesbury Avenue; he smiled vaguely at her and walked on. Something worried him; he wished Nunne was still there. On a sudden impulse, he turned into a phone box. The Hungarian priest answered the phone. Sorme gave his name and asked if Father Carruthers was free. A few minutes later, the priest returned, and said that Father Carruthers would be free until four o’clock. Sorme looked at his watch. It was after three. He said:

Thank you very much. I’ll come over now.

On the bus, travelling down Holborn, he wondered what he wanted to say to the priest. It was some compulsion to unravel a knot; but his ideas about what he was unravelling were uncertain. He was balanced on the edge of an excitement that refused to be denned.

The Hungarian priest took him up, and left him at the end of the corridor. Father Carruthers was sitting in front of the fire, wearing a dressing-gown over pyjamas. Sorme was pleased by the warmth of his grip as he shook hands: he was secretly afraid of boring the old man.

I’m glad you came, Gerard. Sit down.

When Sorme was seated, and before he could speak further, the priest leaned forward, saying:

Did Stein ask you any questions yesterday?

Yes. We went and had a cup of coffee. . .

Who suggested that?

He did.

The priest looked grave.

And he asked you about Austin?

Why, yes. How did you know?

The priest ignored him. He was staring past Sorme’s head out of the window. Something in his face kept Sorme silent; it was an expression he would never have associated with the priest, a mixture of power and concentration with detached regret, a summary. The silence lengthened. Glancing cautiously at his wristwatch, Sorme noticed it was almost twenty to four. The priest looked at him; he seemed to have come to a decision. He said quietly:

I think you are a reliable person, aren’t you, Gerard?

I hope so, father.

The priest’s tone was clear and businesslike.

In my profession, I am often obliged to make decisions that contravene the law—or, rather, ignore it. I have to work upon the assumption that individual souls are of value. The law judges a man by what he has done: I have to judge him by what he is. Do you understand?

Sorme nodded.

What I am going to tell you now will place us both in that position. . .

He was silent: Sorme waited, with a foreboding. He anticipated what the priest was going to say and prepared himself for it.

On Thursday night, Franz Stein received information from the Hamburg police that gave him reason to suppose that Austin might be the Whitechapel murderer.

He stopped. Sorme sat there, surprised by his own calm. He asked finally:

Will they arrest him?

Not yet.

Why?

They have no evidence. It would be very difficult to find evidence at this stage. He is being watched all the time.

And is he. . . the killer?

He could be.

The questions piled up in him, obstructing one another like a cumulative accident on an arterial highway; he felt them escaping in the confusion. The priest watched him without speaking. Sorme said:

He’s not insane. I’m certain he’s not insane.

I don’t know.

But. . . is it sense? Do you. . . do you know what the Hamburg report said?

Yes. He is well known to the prostitutes who cater for sadists. And he is suspected of murder.

Murder?

Of a young male prostitute. There is no definite evidence. He is one of a dozen suspects.

Sorme said with sudden indignation:

But hell, father. . .! That’s no reason to suspect a man. . . of mass murder, I mean, is it? Is that all? Is there anything else?

No, that’s all.

But in that case, it’s not so serious. Austin might be one of a hundred suspects. And he has one great fact in his favour. He’s queer. You say he’s suspected of killing a male prostitute. Surely that. . .

Quite. The evidence is slim. But there is evidence. If Austin is the murderer. . . and it is just possible, after all. . . if he is the killer, then he stands no chance of escaping detection now. The police are clever. They know there is no point in alarming him. If they had any evidence at all, they’d make an arrest. As it is, they will watch him to see if he provides evidence. If he drove to Whitechapel tonight and walked around the streets—even if he did nothing more—they might arrest him.

After a silence, Sorme asked:

Suppose he is the killer. . . what’d happen to him if they caught him?

The priest said softly, with precision:

They would hang him.

Are you sure, father?

Quite sure.

No chance of Broadmoor?

None whatever. Even if he was declared insane, he would be hanged. He has no past record of mental instability—no periods in asylums, or past convictions that might be interpreted as pathological. They would have to hang him, as they hanged Heath and Haigh and Christie—because the newspapers have headlined the murders until there is a widespread neurosis about them.

Sorme knew suddenly, without needing to ask, why the ‘ priest had confided in him. He felt an urgency of anger rising in him, a protest against the unreasonableness of it all, the stupidity and unfairness that was a force of nature, not a human failing, and was therefore somehow unchallengeable. He asked quietly.

What am I to do, father?

That is difficult. I want to ask you one thing: please do not tell Austin. There are other ways. If you see him often. . .

I’ve just had lunch with him!

Good. Well, there are ways. You might pretend to notice that you are being followed. You might invent someone who has asked you questions about Austin. But if you tell him, and he is finally caught and tried for murder, then you are an accessory. Do you understand?

I see. . . You think he might tell?

He would, eventually. Sooner or later, he would feel the need to confess fully. I am assuming now that he might be the murderer.

Sorme said:

Father. . . I promise I won’t tell him outright

Good.

But. . . I dunno quite how to put it. . . have you any idea of whether it’s likely. . . of whether Austin might be. . . ?

The priest shrugged.

How can I tell? I haven’t seen Austin for a long time.

His reply left Sorme baffled; he could feel himself become inarticulate as he tried to explain himself. He said:

But I don’t think it’s likely, you know! It’s just not likely!

Why?

Because. . . well, because one’s friends don’t usually turn out to be murderers, I suppose.

The priest smiled.

Mine have.

Really?

On two occasions. However, that’s beside the point. After all, it can hardly come as a surprise to you that Austin should be suspected. You have spoken to me about your own suspicions.

Yes. . . but I think I know him better since then. He’s mixed up, I know. He’s almost the original crazy mixed-up kid. But he’s also gentle and good tempered and generous. These qualities just don’t go with a killer.

The priest said:

And yet you showed no surprise when I told you of the Hamburg murder. Were you certain that was not Austin either?

I.
         
. . I don’t know. I don’t think. . . it’s likely. But. . . well, how can I tell? I don’t know the circumstances. It’s possible. A foreign city, an attempt to con him or rob him in the night. . . and Austin’s enormously strong, I’d guess. It could happen and still not mean a thing. . .

And supposing it was not like that? Supposing it was ordinary sadistic murder? How would you feel about it then?

I don’t know, but it wouldn’t necessarily make any difference. I’d still want to know why before I decided. I mean I’d want to get inside Austin’s skin and feel as he did when he. . . did it.

Why?

Because. . . you can’t judge anything otherwise. Besides, it’s not so hard to understand. Sometimes you don’t really do things—another part of you does them, and you’re only a spectator. I could put myself in the skin of a sadist all right.

Could you?

I.
         
. . think so.

Have you ever caused suffering. . . physical suffering?

I suppose so. I used to kill chickens at Christmas when I was a boy. But I didn’t particularly enjoy doing it. And I once drowned a mouse that I found in my waste bucket, and poured boiling water on it as it swam around. But that was because I was afraid it’d take hours to die. I wouldn’t do that now.

Why?

It’d make me feel sick. Besides, there’s an instinct in me that hates killing.

The priest said quietly and conclusively:

Then you could not place yourself in the mind of a sadist, could you?

That doesn’t follow. A sadist’s a sexual killer, isn’t he? That makes it different. Most people can sympathise to some extent with a sex crime.