Ritual in the Dark by Colin Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

killing instinct that the old man had aroused in him. Even now, it would have given him pleasure to stand in the doorway and empty a revolver into the repulsive nakedness. The strength of his own hatred surprised him.
    His hands were grimy, from touching the rail of the fire escape. He washed them in the kitchen, gradually relaxing as he leaned over the sink, his hands in the warm water. When he came down again the girl was waiting in his room. She stared back from the bookcase as he came in:
    Oh—I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind me coming in. . .
    Not at all. What happened?
    He says he will have to report it. That’s all.
    Will you have a glass of wine?
    She looked as if about to refuse. He took the bottle out of the cupboard, saying: I’m having one.
    Please. Just a little, then.
    It was the bottle he had opened the day before and was still nearly full. He poured wine into a tumbler and handed it to her.
    Sit down.
    Thank you.
    She sat in the armchair by the fire. She had a strong, pointed face, with high cheekbones. Her mouth was full, but strong, not sensual. If she had been slimmer she might have been almost beautiful. Her English was perfect.
    What do you think we ought to do about him?
    He said: I’m all for killing him. He disgusts me.
    What did he say?
    Nothing intelligible. He was pretty drunk. He was sitting on the floor in the nude.
    Nude. You mean naked?
    That’s it.
    He pulled a hard chair up opposite her and sat down.
    I don’t understand him. It is strange that he has not killed himself. He drinks all the time.
    Who is he? Do you know?
    He was an engineer. His wife died. I think he has money. Sometimes he talks in Hyde Park about religion.
    What about religion?
    I don’t know. Some Russian sect who believe in dancing round a bonfire. And he talks a lot when he’s drunk. About murder.
    Murder?
    Yes. He pretends he has a great secret. . . about—what do you call him—Jacques L’Eventreur?
    Jacques. . . Jack the Disemboweller? Oh, you mean Jack the Ripper What does he say about him?
    I don’t know. He talks a lot when he is drunk.
    Why does Mrs Miller tolerate him? Why doesn’t she throw him out?
    Why should she? She doesn’t have to live in the same house with him. He pays three pounds a week for that room. No one else would pay so much.
    He finished his wine, and poured some more. She had not touched hers yet. She said: He frightens me. Once he stole a pair of my shoes. . . There was a ring at the front doorbell. She jumped up immediately:
    I have to go. That is for me.
    Did you get them back?
    Oh, yes. I found them in his cupboard. Goodbye. Thank you for the wine.
    Not at all. Come up some evening when you don’t have to go out.
    He sat, staring into the gas fire, then leaned over and picked up her untouched wine. It tasted warm. He said aloud: I must get a woman. I’m getting sex-starved. He thought of the women who stood outside the Camden tube, their eyes following the men who walked past; then realised immediately that he had no desire for a prostitute. It would have destroyed his appetite, like a meal in a Rowton House. He finished the wine, and sat down at the typewriter.
     
    *    *    *
     
    That night, the vastation happened again. He woke up feeling hot and slightly drunk. He was still fully clothed, lying on the bed. Opposite his eyes, the radio droned softly; he had fallen asleep listening to a late night chamber concert. The room was in darkness, except for the light from the wavelength panel, and the red glow of the neon lights from the cinema over the way. His mind formed the question as he stared across the room: What am I doing here? It seemed arbitrary; he might have been anywhere or anything. A sense of alien-ness oppressed him, and he tried to focus his attention on it to discover its precise nature. Immediately, an orgasm of fear twisted his heart, and drained the strength out of his will. It was an awareness that his own existence was not capable of detaching itself