Читать книгу Isolated - M. A. Hunter - Страница 11

Blackfriars, London

Sitting in the padded chair across the desk from Maddie’s latest stack of manuscripts, I can’t help but notice the subtle changes she’s introduced since my first book, Monsters Under the Bed, flew off the shelves. Back when we first met in this very room, the picture reproductions on the walls weren’t framed, there was no television or mini-fridge in the corner of the room, and the only luxurious chair was Maddie’s own well-worn bright-red faux-leather recliner. I remember her commenting that she preferred to read manuscripts at a forty-five degree angle – caught halfway between rest and the real world. Each to their own, I figured back then.

Choosing the right literary agent is a challenge for all new authors; if you’ve ever written and tried to publish a book, you’ll understand why I say this. I mean, writing a book is a marathon of a challenge, just in terms of putting the words down on paper, but to then give each sentence and paragraph the tender, loving attention they need until what you’ve produced resembles something nearing literature is far from easy. And then at that point, when you think your part is complete – you’ve actually written a book for goodness’ sake! – that’s when the real work begins, because although you believe passionately in the piece of writing you’ve poured your heart and soul into, convincing a very busy literary agent that it’s worth their time to read it is another matter.

I was lucky in that I was introduced to Maddie at a book launch of a friend of a friend. As soon as I explained that I was looking into historical abuse at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, with detailed witness accounts from three victims, she was salivating at the prospect. I should explain that Monsters is not a work of fiction, and whilst I am proud of the outcome it brought about for the victims – particularly Freddie – it was probably one of the most challenging projects I’ve taken on.

As an investigative journalist, you’re warned that fate can take you down some dark alleys in the search for the truth, but my interviews with Freddie, Mike and Steve were unrelenting; we got through more than one box of tissues along the way. But earlier this year, it all seemed worth it when the men responsible for the vicious abuse were tried and convicted at The Old Bailey. And in the next six months, the documentary about that hellhole will be available for all to stream (keep your own box of tissues to hand).

I can’t forget the sneer on Arthur Turgood’s face the moment Jack and I went to visit him in his cage three months ago. The gall of the man to see how desperately I needed answers, only to leave me in limbo.

My chest heaves; I’m not going to allow him to spoil my day again.

Maddie’s office now bears the tell-tall signs of Christmas approaching. In her defence, Maddie hasn’t gone over the top. The tree atop the mini-fridge is barely a metre high and is sparsely decorated with lights and baubles, and there are barely half a dozen festive cards standing on the locked cabinet against the far wall. Maddie once told me she doesn’t go into Christmas as much as when she was younger, but I’m the opposite; you can barely move for tinsel, garlands and twinkling lights in my one-bedroom studio flat in Weymouth.

Christmas when I was growing up was always a big occasion; or at least it was until… My chest tightens at the thought of the space on the mantelpiece where two advent calendars had once hung. After Anna’s disappearance, it had never felt right to make a big fuss at Christmas. And for a time after I left home, I maintained that status quo of barely even decorating a tree, but that all changed when I met Rachel at university. A city girl through and through, Rachel reminded me of how joyous December can be with a few decorations and festive songs. She also reminded me that Anna might return one day, and would hate to think that her disappearance had robbed us of our Christmas spirit.

The door behind me bursts open and Maddie comes jogging in, panting and flustered, her usual pristine and carefully made-up face red and blotchy, and her mop of chestnut curls sweat-streaked and clinging to her glistening forehead. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but professional business attire either, and this purple and silver tracksuit is reminiscent of the sort of thing that made shell suits so popular when I was a teenager.

‘You’re early,’ she puffs at me, surprised to find me in her small office with a takeaway cup of tea.

‘We said nine,’ I say, frowning, as I suddenly question whether I am the one in the wrong.

Maddie drops into her new black leather recliner, reaching down to the mini-fridge and withdrawing a chilled bottle of mineral water and drinking half the contents, before looking back to me. ‘Are you sure I said nine? I was certain we weren’t meeting until ten.’

I’m racking my memory now, certain the invitation in my online calendar said to meet at nine. ‘No, I think we were originally going to meet at ten, but then your assistant messaged me and said you had to move it earlier as you have another meeting at ten?’

Maddie snaps her fingers together and screws the lid back onto the bottle. ‘That’s right, that’s right, of course it is. Oh, I’m so sorry, Emma. Yes, now that you’ve said that it’s all coming flooding back. What am I like?’

Maddie is twenty years older than me, but I’ve never seen her in as big a flap as she is now; usually our roles are reversed with me becoming anxious and stressed about every possible scenario, while she is coolness personified. I don’t like being the collected one in this relationship and I’m grateful when she logs in to her laptop and refers back to the agenda for today’s meeting.

‘I have good news, and not such good news,’ she declares, locating a towel from a gym bag squashed down behind her desk and wiping her forehead clean.

Maddie has always been good at managing my expectations and she doesn’t hide the truth from me, but she also has a tendency to try and sugar-coat anything that might otherwise feel like a negative. I don’t think she does this just for me, but it comes as part and parcel of her role as literary agent and maternal figure to all of her clients. We writers really do have low opinions of ourselves, and it is easy for the tiniest molehill to be blown out of all proportion and enlarged into a menacing ash cloud.

I take a deep breath, determined not to overthink whatever bombshell she’s about to drop. ‘Okay,’ I say, unable to keep the caution from my voice. ‘What’s the good news?’

‘The publisher loves Ransomed! They actually think the way it’s been written is even better than Monsters Under the Bed. They love the dual timeline approach where we learn what was really happening with little Cassie Hilliard’s abduction, while in the later timeline we get to follow your investigation. Your editor Becky says it reads almost like a piece of gripping fiction, and is even more compelling because it’s based on a true story.’

‘It is a true story,’ I counter. ‘I didn’t make up what happened to Cassie Hilliard. It’s factual.’

Maddie is pulling a face, her nose wrinkling as she prepares to deliver the not-so-good news. ‘Yes, it is factual, but… their legal department is challenging some of the conclusions you’ve drawn at the end of the book. I know we discussed the ending before you wrote it, and I was the one who encouraged you to tell it as you saw it, but the lawyers aren’t so sure such conclusions can be drawn without evidence.’

‘He as much as admitted to me what he’d done,’ I respond, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. ‘He was the one behind it all, and if the lawyers want to see my written notes of that conversation, I’m happy to supply them. They’re date- and time-stamped. I jotted them down as soon as we’d finished speaking.’

Her nose wrinkles even more. ‘But they say it’s still your word against his. He denies any such conversation occurred and that you’re just trying to sensationalise your account of Cassie’s abduction to sell more books.’

I scoff at the affront. ‘Well, of course he’s going to say that; he doesn’t want the world to know what he did!’

Maddie raises her flat palms in a calming gesture. ‘I know he’s as guilty as you say, and that you would never dare lie for dramatic effect, but your notes of the conversation are not conclusive proof. I read the first and second drafts of the book, and anyone with half a brain who reads what you’ve written won’t be able to draw any alternative conclusion to the one you’ve presented. But…’

She leaves the ‘but’ hanging in the air and I can’t say I’m surprised that the publishers are getting nervous. Cassie Hilliard’s family have enough money to put the publishers out of business – or at the very least have them tearing through bureaucratic red tape for the next ten years.

‘So where does that leave us?’ I ask when I’ve composed myself and remembered that Maddie is merely the messenger.

‘They are continuing with the copyedit and you’ll have the proposed changes over to you sometime in late January and in the meantime, their legal department will continue to scrutinise the backstory and potential libel implications. The family haven’t brought any kind of civil action against them or you yet and they just want to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘Worst-case scenario?’

Maddie lets out a long and fatigued sigh. ‘Worst-case scenario, they ask you to reword the final chapter and leave it to the reader to determine guilt. It’s not the end of the world to leave the ending open, if you ask me. It will certainly leave your readers with questions, and that in itself will only generate further discussion.’

I’m not convinced, and hate the thought of leaving my readers without the whole picture. ‘And best-case scenario?’

‘They leave everything as it is and the world gets to see the truth about what really happened. Either way, you look set to have a second bestseller under your belt. Twitter is already hanging on every rumour about the book and its possible publication date. As soon as this wrangle is finished with the lawyers, they’ve promised to officially reveal the cover and put it up on pre-order.’ Maddie pauses and takes another slug from her bottle of mineral water. ‘The publishers have talked about an official launch party for the announcement. Now, I know you’re not keen on big public displays, but they really think it will help announce the book if you’re there to pose for pictures. As much as you hate the term celebrity, Monsters put you on the map, and now everyone is desperate to know what’s coming next.’

I cringe at the mention of a launch party where I’ll be the centre of attention. When did it become necessary for authors to have faces? I’d much prefer to just write and allow all the marketing and publicity to be handled by the experts.

‘You’re chewing the sleeve of your cardigan again,’ Maddie warns.

I yank my arm down, frustrated that I still have that nervous habit. ‘They’re not expecting me to speak at this event, are they?’

Maddie doesn’t have the chance to answer as the phone on the corner of her desk bursts into life. She grabs it on the second ring and adopts her regular telephone voice, but whatever she’s being told is clearly not good news as the blood drains instantly from her face. Do I assume this is news from the publisher’s legal team?

Maddie hangs up without saying another word, pushes back her chair and charges towards the closed door.

‘Maddie, what is it?’ I call after her. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s a woman on the roof,’ she replies absently, ‘and she’s threatening to jump.’