Free Ritual in the Dark by Colin Wilson Page A

remembering that his landlady might be in the house, he decided against returning to his room, and went towards Farringdon Street. His stomach felt watery and rebellious. It was the talk of murder. It had settled on his senses like a film of soot from a smoking lamp, coating them with a greyness of depression. He noticed also that he cycled with less confidence. The depression brought a sense of his body’s betrayal. He stared up Ludgate Hill at St Paul’s, thinking: London in November has no daylight. Only dusk. And London in July has too much daylight. Unreal, or too real.
    The newsvendor’s placard read: SEARCH FOR MANIAC KILLER. He turned towards Rosebery Avenue. Why should I care? Poor sod probably a paranoiac. Bored and confused. Kills as a protest. Stop the world. I wanna get off.
     
    *    *    *
     
    The grey front of the Rosebery Avenue hostel had a pumice-stone quality that chilled the skin, like water. He rang the bell; behind him, the bicycle suddenly fell on to the pavement, the rear wheel spinning. He was leaning it against the wall again when the door was opened. He said:
    Hi, Robin! How are you?
    Gerard! Good heavens, what are you doing here?
    The thin, damp hands clasped his. Robin Maunsell pulled him gently over the threshold.
    I was just passing, Sorme said. Is it a bad time to call?
    No, of course not. Do come in. Have you had lunch?
    Yes, thanks.
    How lovely to see you.
    He peered into Sorme’s face, smiling. Sorme withdrew his hand, feeling the pleasure that he had experienced tensing and congealing. Maunsell threw open a glass-panelled door, and led the way into the room, the cassock round his feet making the gentle, swishing noise of a gown.
    You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?
    Thanks. Yes, I’d love one.
    Light the fire while I go and see about it.
    Sorme groped in his pocket for matches; finding none, he wandered automatically towards the bookcase and scanned the titles. All were volumes of theology by writers he had never heard of. The windows of the room were of frosted glass, and overlooked the street. Vague silhouettes of people rippled past.
    Haven’t you lit the fire?
    Sorry, I’ve no matches.
    Oh, silly!
    Maunsell produced matches from the pocket of his habit; kneeling, he lit the gas fire.
    Let me take your overcoat. Do sit down. How are you? And how’s your disgraceful sex life?
    Sorme said, grinning:
    You take a brotherly interest in my sins.
    Of course; I wouldn’t like to see you damned. But I dare say you’d like to be damned, wouldn’t you?
    I am, Sorme said. We all are.
    Oh, I hope not.
    He sat in the armchair with prim suddenness, clasping his hands in his lap. Sorme said:
    I think you commit my sins vicariously, Robin.
    Oh dear no. I’d really absolutely loathe to live your sort of life, really! But do tell me. How’s—er. . . thingermerjig—the one you were going to bed with the last time I saw you?
    Sorme stared at the fire; he said solemnly:
    Dead. She died of tetanus on top of St Vitus’s dance.
    Really? I’m sorry. . . Oh, but you’re joking! Aren’t you? No, be serious. If you don’t want to tell me about your love life, let’s talk of something else.
    I came to talk of something else, as a matter of fact. Tell me about Father Carruthers.
    Why? Where have you heard of him?
    A friend told me about him. Chap called Austin Nunne. Do you know him?
    No. There’s a Mrs Nunne who comes here. Perhaps he’s some relation?
    Her son. Austin suggested I should talk to Father Carruthers. What do you think?
    What about?
    I’d just like to meet him, that’s all. He sounds interesting.
    He is. Terribly clever. He’s written several books. He’s written a life of Chehov, and a book on Dante. He’s writing a book on Marcel at the moment.
    Could I meet him, do you think?
    Well, yes, it shouldn’t be difficult to arrange. But listen, will you promise me something? Well, never mind. . . I’ll go and see about that tea.
    Sorme stopped himself from crossing to