Ah, if you want to talk about that… we shall have to start all over again.
Sorme said:
I don't want to talk about it particularly.
You see… that's my real problem. I can't stay in England. If I was certain I wanted to be cured…
Don't you?
Partly. But it's not like a disease. Surely you can understand that, Gerard?
I think I do…
Don't you see… to do anything worthwhile, you have to be willing to allow yourself to be carried away? You see, I was born like this. It was in my blood. Like your restlessness. I could never settle down to an ordinary life. When I was seventeen I used to pray that I might become a great artist. I used to stare at pictures by Van Gogh or Munch, and think: These men had strange impulses. I think Munch had visions of blood too. I used to think that if I was strong enough I could become a great artist…
He seemed to collapse suddenly, dropping his head again into his hands. Sorme felt an immense pity moving inside him, and a desire to reach across to him. Nunne said:
It was no good. I was too lucky. My family had too much money. To do a thing like that, you need to feel alone.
Sorme said quietly: Poor Austin.
Nunne looked up, smiling; his eyes were red where he had been rubbing them.
No. I'm not poor Austin. I'm f-ing rich Austin. But you know, Gerard, I have a theory. Subconsciously, I've been trying to induce a state of crisis in my life. To get rid of the money and privilege. And now I've done it. The crisis is here. There's no way back now. Think, if I'd left the country yesterday, this poor devil from Brixton might have been sentenced for the murders and no one would have known.
Sorme said:
I'm not so sure. The police have been watching you. Father Carruthers told me to warn you. Stein told him.
Father Carruthers? Nunne said. Is there anybody in London who doesn't know?
I don't know whether he knows. I didn't know until I saw you. I couldn't believe it.
Nunne said:
You believe it now?
No. Not really. Oh, I accept your word for it… but it's not real to me.
Nunne stretched out his hands on his thighs, and stared at them. He said:
But it's true…
Sorme said:
But why? Why do you have to do it?
Nunne looked at him; his eyes seemed strangely hooded, concealed. He said:
How do I know? The impulse goes back so far that I can't even trace it. Haven't you ever felt anything of the sort?
I… suppose so. When I was about six I had a nasty tendency to beat up boys who were smaller than myself… if there was something about them that irritated me. I don't know whether that was sadism or just high spirits…
Nunne said, smiling:
It sounds like authentic sadism.
But I could always understand the impulse at the time. It wasn't like — well, being possessed by a demon or something. It was me all right.
Of course. It always is.
But… you talked to me once about doing something that made you feel as if you'd been changed into an animal.
Did I? Perhaps I did. But that's only a histrionic way of putting it. If you look at yourself objectively, of course you feel like an animal. But it's never as weird as that. You know some psychiatrist has a theory that the old legends of vampires and werewolves arose out of cases of sadism — split personality. I never felt like a werewolf.
How did you feel?
Nunne was staring at his hands again. He said slowly:
I can give you an idea. When I killed that coloured prostitute I felt an immense exaltation. I felt like a prophet cleansing the world, like Jesus throwing the moneychangers out of the Temple. And when she was lying on the ground, I had to suppress an urge to shout and bring the whole street to look at her. I wanted to say: Look, she's dead. She's an example to the world…
He looked up suddenly, and caught the look of fascinated horror on Sorme's face. Somehow, he was not the same person; his face and eyes seemed darker; he reminded Sorme of a gypsy he had known as a child. He said sadly:
I know. You don't understand. You can't.
Sorme said:
No… I understand a little. Was she the first?
Nunne stared back at him; his eyes were bolder now, and somehow depthless.
No. But… I don't want to talk about that.
All right… What do you want to talk about?
The problem of what I'm going to do.
What do you want to do?
I don't know. You see… I've let this impulse grow stronger. And today I feel quite cleansed of it — as if it had gone for good. Perhaps it has gone for good.
The hope was there; Sorme could see it clearly. It would have been impossible to counterfeit. Sorme said quietly:
Because of last night?
Nunne nodded.
Because of last night. Do you know something, Gerard? Last night, for the first time, I felt suddenly disgusted with myself. It seemed stupid and pointless. And all the way back here I was thinking: If I'm caught this time, that's the last time. It won't happen again…
And do you mean that?
I think so. I don't know. You see, Gerard, I still want to do something else. I'm still certain I could do something good, something important. Don't you think so? It's the same urge — the need to let something out of yourself.
Sorme said:
Look, forgive me if this question's stupid. I'd like to ask it all the same. Supposing everything turns out as you want it to. Supposing you go back to London and the police don't arrest you and you start a new life. Wouldn't you ever think back on… the past? Would you feel it had been written off and closed?
I don't know. I think so.
You don't feel — well, pangs of conscience…?
What's the point? It's done now. And if the urge has gone for good, then it wasn't all meaningless…
But what about the women?
Nunne shrugged:
Pooh, a few prostitutes. Women who'd sold their lives, anyway. Do you know what the woman last night said to me? 'I suppose you might be Leather Apron.' She knew I might be.
I suppose she didn't believe it.
She knew it was possible. She just didn't care. If you'd found some loathsome worm in a meat pie, you'd stop eating that brand of meat pie, wouldn't you? And if you carried on eating them, it would prove you didn't really care.
Or that I was too hungry not to eat them.
No. These women aren't too poor to give it up. They could live better as shop assistants or hosiery workers. They just don't care.
