Girl A(46)

Oliver was forgettably good-looking, like that actor in a soap, or a person in a stock image. His office smelt of expensive cologne. ‘There are some things that you can do cheaply,’ Oliver would tell Gabriel, in bed, a few years later. ‘But not suits, and not aftershave.’ Gabriel never did find out what the cheap things were, because everything about Oliver was expensive. He wore a vintage Rolex, which he had purchased from his watch dealer; his shoes and his wallet had been made in Milan; he would order the oldest wine he could find on the menu. When Gabriel came into the room, he was sitting at his desk in a plum suit, typing on a MacBook. He didn’t look up.

‘I think that we have an appointment,’ Gabriel said, and Oliver blinked.

‘Gabriel,’ Gabriel said. ‘Gabriel Gracie.’

‘Of course,’ Oliver said. ‘OK! Gabriel. So. Tell me about yourself.’

With both hands, Gabriel held out his portfolio. Oliver took it, turned a few pages, and slapped it onto the desk.

‘Like I said. Tell me about yourself.’

What was there to lose? He started with Moor Woods Road. He found that Oliver was listening to him – nodding here, taken aback there – and, emboldened, he sat down at the desk and continued. He recalled all of the details that Jimmy had asked to hear, the meat off the story’s bones, and he gave that up, too. When he stopped speaking he felt exhilarated, then exposed. He looked down to his lap and waited for Oliver’s verdict.

‘You’re certainly more interesting than the Coulson-Browne girl,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ll give you that. And it’s in my remit. I’ve represented a number of victims – terrorism, near-misses, some really traumatic stuff – and they’ve done OK.’

Oliver frowned, calculating something crucial on his fingers.

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he said. ‘It would be better if you were the one who had got the others out. The one who escaped. But there isn’t much we can do about that. And there’s still a few opportunities I can think of. Let me see what I can do.’

They talked business. Here he was: Gabriel Gracie, nineteen, speaking with his agent in the Big Smoke. They talked about what events Gabriel would and wouldn’t be willing to attend (‘How do you feel about gunge?’ Oliver asked), if there was any way of contacting Girl A (there wasn’t), and the cut to which Oliver would be entitled (which seemed to Gabriel – even then – more like a fucking haemorrhage).

He celebrated with the Coulson-Brownes, with quiche Lorraine and champagne from France.

Most of the work involved true crime conventions. In his first year on the circuit, he would take to the stage to speak, but later on he tended to be assigned to a table in the lobby of a three-star hotel, sitting behind his name card and signing miscellaneous items. He was both impressed and disturbed by the extent of knowledge attendees had about his family. One evening, a woman presented to him a small, filthy T-shirt which she claimed had belonged to Eve. He recoiled from it and quickly recovered. Oliver would be unimpressed by his squeamishness, and he had no way of knowing if it was a genuine article. He considered the cardboard box of his own childhood belongings, which were stored and sealed in the Coulson-Brownes’ attic, and wondered, fleetingly, what they might be worth.

There was increased demand for him in the autumn, when people started thinking about Halloween. These events were more challenging. At the true crime gatherings, he felt that people were waiting for him: when he started to speak, a hush descended across the room. The Halloween gigs were louder, and few people knew who he was. He appeared at universities, and at the nightclubs of small, sullen towns. He looked at the crowds, ragged in fancy dress, and understood that the majority of the attendees were the same age as him. They, like him, would have been nine years old when the police entered the house on Moor Woods Road, and were unlikely to remember much of the story. He was usually appointed to speak for five minutes and to introduce the next band, but he rarely filled the allocated time. ‘You need to make it scarier,’ a student representative instructed him. ‘A little less depressing.’

He had expected that there might be more glamour to this life. For the most part, the hotel rooms were tired and the beer was warm, and it was usually raining. He had anticipated spending his time in London, or perhaps abroad, speaking to journalists or to crowded halls. He had believed that his story could be an inspiration. In the end, he did make it to London, but not to inspire the masses. He moved to London because he was in love with Oliver.

It started in December, when Gabriel’s work was drying up. An empty email from Oliver. Subject line: WE NEED TO TALK. They met for dinner in London, at the restaurant of a celebrity chef whom Gabriel had never heard of. Oliver looked unwell. The hair at his temples was damp, and behind the cologne there was another smell, something like old food, which Gabriel didn’t recognize. Right at the start of the meal, as soon as drinks were served, Oliver came to it. ‘You need to diversify,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘You need to add another string to your bow,’ Oliver said, and when Gabriel continued to look at him, blank and anxious, he set down his glass and sighed. ‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said. ‘It’s December. Nobody wants a survivor of child abuse for their Christmas party.’

Oliver proposed that Gabriel should accept what he described as more ‘standard’ work. Many of his clients, he said, needed to be flexible in order to get through the year. Oliver would accept an additional down payment to make this happen.