Ritual in the Dark Read Free

student?
    You’ve got a student’s ticket sticking out of your top pocket. Anyway, you look like one.
    They were outside again, standing near the immense Negro statues, and the drizzle fell steadily.
    I’m not a student, Sorme said, but for some reason everyone supposes I am. I suppose it’s the scruffy appearance.
    He was wondering how he could indicate to Nunne, as quickly and as tactfully as possible, that he was not homosexual. He started to raise the umbrella, but Nunne stopped him:
    Don’t bother. That’s my car over there. Let’s run for it.
    It was a long, red sports model with a canvas hood. Nunne yanked open the unlocked door and Sorme slid past the steering wheel, into the passenger seat. The car made a neat half-turn and glided forward towards Wellington Place. Nunne grumbled:
    I suppose there’ll be a bloody traffic jam all the way from here to Piccadilly Circus.
    Sorme stared at the moving windscreen wipers, and at the red light of the traffic-signal that burst in red drops over the unwiped area of the windscreen.
    Nunne began to sing softly to himself:
    Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles. . .
    The car turned into Dover Street. Nunne said softly: It’s our lucky day. Come on, move out, old son.
    A car in front of them was pulling out from the pavement; Nunne slid neatly into the empty space and braked abruptly. He said:
    Three cheers. We’ve arrived. Open your door.
    Sorme stepped out on to the pavement, and immediately raised the umbrella. Nunne slammed the door shut. He said, chuckling:
    For God’s sake put that thing down. The local coppers will think you’re soliciting.
    Soliciting?
    They’ll think you’re trying to advertise your sex to the local queers.
    I’m not queer, Sorme said bluntly. He lowered the umbrella. Nunne said, laughing: Don’t be silly. I wasn’t serious. I didn’t suppose you were.
    They crossed the road, avoiding a taxi. They turned again into Piccadilly. Nunne steered him towards a lighted doorway:
    Here we are. After you.
    The air was pleasantly warm. Sorme was helped out of the raincoat by a man in a red uniform, who handed the coat and umbrella to the cloakroom attendant. The man nodded at Nunne as if he knew him well:
    Evenin’, sir.
    Evening, George.
    There were only two other men in the bar. Nunne indicated a corner seat for Sorme; it was deep and comfortable.
    What are you having?
    Beer?
    They don’t have draught. You can have a lager.
    That’s fine, Sorme said uncomfortably. He was trying to remember how much money he had on him, and how long it had to last. He crossed his knees, and felt the trousers damp. He stared down at the frayed turnups, and at the leather strips sewn on to the cuffs of his jacket. The poverty of his appearance did not embarrass him, but he had never entirely lost a sense of its disadvantage. He thought: I wonder if they’d let me into this place on my own? and decided it was unlikely.
    Nunne set the glass of lager in front of him. He seated himself opposite Sorme in a rush-backed lounge chair, and poured the entire contents of a bottle of ginger ale into a large whisky. He took a big gulp of it, then set it down, sighing:
    Ah, it’ll be the death o’ me yit, jist like me poor feyther. Cigarette, Gerard?
    No thanks, I don’t smoke.
    You don’t mind me calling you Gerard?
    Of course not.
    Good. And I’m Austin.
    Sorme tasted the beer. It was ice-cold.
    Tell me, Gerard. If you’re not a student, what do you do?
    Nothing much. I’m writing a book.
    But how do you live? Journalism?
    No, I’ve had a very small private income since I was twenty-one. . .
    Which was. . . ?
    Five years ago. I just about scrape along. So I’m really one of the idle rich. Except that I’m not rich.
    Are you idle?
    Pretty idle.
    Like me, then. I thought I recognised a fellow spirit as soon as I saw you. What were you reading, by the way?
    Sorme pulled the dog-eared paperback out of his pocket. He said laughing:
    Sex for beginners. By Frank