Ritual in the Dark (3 page)

It’s not mine. It’s my landlady’s daughter’s. She insisted on lending it to me when I came out today.

They came out into the rain again. Sorme felt fortified against it and happy. It was the first time for several years that he had been drunk, and the sensation delighted him. Nunne grasped his elbow and squeezed it, asking:

Has this girl got a thing about you?

I suspect so. At least, her mother does. And she suspects me of taking base advantage of it—or of being about to. She gave me notice last week.

Really? What do you intend to do?

Nunne backed the car slightly, then pulled out expertly.

I’m moving to another place tomorrow morning.

Whereabouts?

Kentish Town. I’m living in Colindale at the moment.

My God, that’s up Bedford way, isn’t it?

Not quite that far. It’s near the newspaper library, which is rather useful. But the new place’ll be more convenient for the British Museum.

And is the daughter moving with you too?

No fear. She’s a sweet girl, but I don’t want to go to bed with her.

How virtuous of you. Get out of the way, you stupid bastard.

This was addressed to a taxi-driver who was turning his taxi in the middle of Brewer Street. Nunne honked his horn twice. It had a braying, brassy tone. As the taxi came past them, the driver shouted:

Tike yer bloody time, can’t yer?

Swine, Nunne said serenely. If we lived in the Middle Ages I’d have him hanged, drawn and quartered for that.

The car shot forward, narrowly missing a pedestrian who came out from between two parked cars.

Fool! Nunne screamed.

You should drive a juggernaut chariot. It’d be more in your style.

Nunne said indignantly: All drivers should be more dangerous. That would reduce the number of careless pedestrians. Eventually, there’d only be careful ones left.

What about when you’re a pedestrian?

I’d carry a gun. All pedestrians should carry tommy guns to shoot at dangerous drivers. That’d make London far more interesting.

The car cruised down Dean Street. Nunne said:

Not a single bloody parking place in Soho. . . Ah! We are in luck tonight.

An Anglia pulled out of a row of parked cars. Nunne slid past the empty space and backed into it. He turned the engine off.

You’re so good-tempered, Gerard. You obviously don’t hate people as much as I do.

Sorme said, smiling:

You obviously don’t know me as well as I do.

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Nunne commanded good service. The manager came to their table and made a polite speech about being delighted to see him. Their waiter was obsequious; he exuded a desire to please.

You seem well known here.

Sorme was not interested; he said it only to make conversation.

I’ve changed my restaurant a dozen times in two years. I haven’t been here for over a fortnight, so they probably assumed they wouldn’t ever see me again.

Why do you change?

Nunne masticated and swallowed slowly the last mouthful of smoked salmon. He said, sighing:

Sheer pettiness, Gerard. I get offended about little things. I know damn’ well I’m being silly, but I get offended all the same.

Sorme regarded him with mistrust, mixed with a certain disappointment, feeling as if Nunne had confessed to a tendency to shoot at old ladies with a revolver. Nunne seemed not to notice. When the waiter filled his glass, he drained the Chianti without lowering it.

Nunne had ordered roast duck, cooked with paprika and cheese. When it arrived he stopped talking and gave full attention to the food, speaking only to reply to acquaintances who came past the table. When this happened Sorme did not look up; he was aware of being regarded with curiosity. He could almost feel the conjectures being made, and he ate quickly and mechanically to conceal the irritation.

He had difficulty in dissuading Nunne from ordering a second bottle of wine. His motives were purely selfish; he knew that if he drank another half bottle, he would be sick before the end of the evening.

The rain had stopped when they left. Sorme walked contentedly beside Nunne, now feeling happier in the anonymity of the Soho crowd. His feelings about Nunne were mixed. He calculated that the meal he had just eaten was the most expensive he had eaten in his life. The sight of the six pound notes Nunne had dropped on to the waiter’s plate had shocked him; it represented a week’s food and rent. The most he had ever paid for a meal had been ten shillings. He felt a certain gratitude for Nunne’s generosity, now that he had ceased to suspect his motives. But a faint dislike rose in him periodically. There was something distinctly repellent about Nunne. It had to do with the combination of coarseness and femininity in him. The brown hair was long and silky, almost beautiful, a woman’s hair. The teeth were irregular and yellowish; two at the front were pointed, canine. When he looked closely at the face, no scars were visible; it was hard to determine what produced the pock-marked effect. When he had asked Nunne, as they drank coffee and vodka, Nunne had said briefly: Car accident, and drawn his finger along a faint, hardly perceptible line that ran across the left cheek, parallel with the jaw.

What would you like to do now, Gerard?

Do you think I might buy you a drink now?

I see no reason why not, dear boy. Let’s go into the French, shall we, that is, if we can sit down.

The pub was crowded. Nunne was immediately hailed by a short, leathery-faced drunk.

Carl Castering, Nunne said. This is Gerard Sorme.

The man seized Sorme’s hand, and looked into his face with the liquid eyes of a drunk.

You’re very good-looking, Gerard. Don’t you think he looks like Rimbaud, Austin? Don’t you, though?

Sorme allowed his hand to be caressed between two damp palms, then withdrew it. He asked Nunne:

What will you drink?

Straight scotch for me.

Sorme asked the drunk: Will you have a drink?

The leathery face turned to him coquettishly.

Why, that’s awfully sweet of you. Yes, I will. Scotch and water.

Sorme finally attracted the barmaid’s attention. He passed two whiskies back to Nunne and his friend. They stood, wedged together in the crush, holding their glasses tightly.

Nunne said: Carl is one of the best photographers in London, Gerard.

Castering leered at Sorme, then suddenly regarded him seriously:

I would like you to sit for me, Gerard. Would you do that?

Only if I’m present, Nunne said lightly.

Why? Don’t you trust me with him?

I was joking, Nunne said.

He said to Sorme: Drink up and let’s find somewhere less crowded.

Sorme obediently threw back the whisky. It no longer made his eyes water.

Outside, Sorme asked him: Is he a friend of yours—Carl?

Swine, Nunne said shortly. Masochist. But a damn good photographer.

They walked slowly along Old Compton Street, keeping close to avoid being separated by the crowd. Outside the Cinerama theatre Nunne was saluted by the uniformed man who controlled the queue.

You seem to know everyone.

He worked as a chucker-out at a place I knew once.

They stopped to look at the coloured pictures, displayed behind glass, that showed scenes from the film. Sorme, glancing up at Nunne, suddenly caught a look of revulsion and absorption. Nunne was staring at a photograph of a switchback car swooping over a hump. A pretty, plump girl stared at the camera, holding her dress over her knees, but the sides of the dress, caught by the wind, revealed the tops of her stockings and suspenders. Nunne turned away abruptly, saying:

Let’s go, Gerard.

Sorme said, laughing: I didn’t think you liked women.

Nunne said: What do you mean?

Nothing; you were staring at that girl as if she fascinated you. The look passed over Nunne’s face again, then disappeared. He said, smiling:

She does. Come on.

They walked back to the car.

Where now, Gerard?

Sorme said, dubiously: I’d like a little quiet.

So would I. What about my flat?

Where is it?

Near Portland Street station.

I’d rather stick to somewhere closer to my way home. I ought to think of getting back.

Where do you live?

Hendon. Until tomorrow.

Of course. All right, we’ll head that way. I know rather a good little pub in Hampstead we might go to. Quiet.

Hampstead? Is that on the way?

Certainly. We can cut over to the Hendon Way. Straight route.

They moved slowly along Old Compton Street. Nunne blew the horn; it emitted a gentle, warning note. Nunne said, grinning: Excellent invention this. I can adjust the tone and volume of the horn. Loud and blatant for the open road; gentle and, as it were, coaxing for London crowds. Come on, shift, you stupid bastards, or I’ll turn the cow-catcher on. This is the only part of London that reminds me of Hamburg’s Reeperbahn. Do you know Hamburg, Gerard?

Sorme said abstractedly: No. He had been staring at his watch for half a minute without registering the time. It was ten past nine.

As they passed Chalk Farm station, Nunne said suddenly:

I know. Let’s go to my aunt’s place. She’ll give us a drink.

Who’s your aunt?

You’d like her. Her name’s Gertrude, and she’s not really my aunt, but she’s terribly sweet. She lives all on her own in a house in the Vale of Health, and never sees anyone. She likes me to drop in. Unless she’s holding a meeting.

What kind of a meeting?

Jehovah’s Witness. It’s her only vice. But she’s really rather sweet.

Sorme said with dismay: You’re not serious, are you?

Why not?

About her being a Jehovah’s Witness?

Oh yes, quite serious about that.

But—I mean—they’re quite up the wall, aren’t they?

Couldn’t say, dear boy. I don’t know a thing about them. She’s never tried to convert me. Anyway, we don’t have to stay if you can’t bear her. But she’ll give us a drink, anyway.

Sorme relaxed into the seat. He had a feeling that he would not get home early after all, and he was too drunk to care deeply. The prospect of changing his lodgings, which had worried him for a week past, now seemed unimportant. He closed his eyes and tried to calculate how much he had drunk. The car braked suddenly, throwing him forward.

Nunne said: Sorry, old boy. I get used to driving my other car, and it brakes gentler than this. Smashed it up last week.

The road was completely deserted. On one side of it the Heath rose steeply; Sorme stepped out and slammed the door. The cool air wakened him; the car-heater had come close to sending him to sleep. Nunne was groping in the leather pocket behind the door; an electric torch clicked in his hand. Sorme followed him through the gateway, into complete blackness. About fifty yards away a light was burning in a doorway, trees shed rain from their leaves as the wind rocked them; Sorme turned his face up to catch the wet drops. He said dreamily:

Does your aunt enjoy living in the middle of nowhere?

She hates it, actually. She’s always threatening to move nearer town, but the Heath’s so lovely in the summer.

The light that burned in the porch was a square lantern, with a pointed electric bulb inside it. Nunne rang the doorbell. A moment later, a light appeared behind the glass panes that covered the upper half of the door. A woman’s voice called: Who is it?

Austin.

Austin!

The door was opened by a small, slim woman.

This is Gerard Sormes, Gertrude. Gerard’s a writer.

Do come in. I was just thinking about going to bed.

Don’t worry. We shan’t stay all night.

I didn’t mean that. Stay as long as you like.

She led them into a long, comfortably furnished sitting-room.

Are you hungry? Have you had supper?

Yes, thanks. An hour ago.

Would you like a drink?

Rather!

You know where it is. Help yourself. I’m having some cocoa.

She switched on the electric fire, and went out. Nunne opened the sideboard, and took out a bottle of whisky. Sorme glimpsed an array of bottles in the cupboard; he asked:

Does your aunt entertain a lot?

Not much. She mixes with two lots. A sort of Hampstead literary crowd—most awful lot of goddam squares you ever saw—and her soul-savers. They’re about as bad. She takes care never to invite them here on the same evenings.

Why?

When her soul-savers come, she hangs up a banner: Beware the Demon Drink—over the booze cupboard. When the literary crowd descends, she has to hire a navvy to cart them home in a wheelbarrow.

The woman came in again, carrying a cup on a tray. She asked:

How is your mother, Austin?

In excellent condition, thanks. She’s coming to London next week.

Will she be staying with you?

She’ll be at my place. I shan’t be there, though. Going to join some friends at St Moritz.

She sat down opposite them. There was something about her that Sorme found very attractive. He would have guessed her age to be about forty. In some way, she managed to give the impression of being well-dressed without seeming to care about her appearance. The tweed skirt was well-cut, but it had started to come unzipped at the waist. The mouth and chin were firm, slightly schoolmistressy. But there was something curiously anonymous about her: she was the kind of person he would not have noticed if she had sat opposite him on the tube.

I didn’t catch your name.

Sorme. Gerard Sorme.

Nunne said: I thought it was Sormes.

No.

What do you write, Mr Sorme?

Sorme said embarrassedly: Austin shouldn’t have introduced me as a writer. I’ve only ever published a few poems in magazines.

Are you a Catholic?

He said with surprise: No, why?

I wondered. . .

Nunne said: He’s an atheistic freethinker, with inclinations to Catholicism. Aren’t you, Gerard?

Austin, behave yourself!

She smiled at Sorme, as if excluding Nunne from the conversation.

You’re not a freethinker, are you?