‘I was brought up in Ventnor,’ he said. ‘On the Isle of Wight. I hated it there. At first, I thought it was because it was an island, because I was surrounded by the sea. But actually it was because of who I was. My mum and dad were Jehovah’s Witnesses, which I know sounds crazy but it’s the truth. Mum used to go round the island, distributing copies of The Watchtower, door to door.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what her biggest tragedy was? She ran out of doors.’
The problem for James was not so much the religion or even the patriarchal structure of his family life (he had two older brothers). It was that homosexuality was considered a sin.
‘I knew what I was when I was ten years old and I lived in terror until I was fifteen,’ he said. ‘The worst of it was not having anyone I could tell. I’d never been close to my brothers – I think they knew I was different – and living on the Isle of Wight I felt like I was growing up in the fifties. The place isn’t so bad now – at least, that’s what I hear. There are gay bars in Newport and gay cruising areas all over the place, but when I was a kid and with the elders coming to the house and all the rest of it, I felt completely alone. And then I met another boy at my school and we began to mess around with each other and that was when I knew I had to get out because if I stayed I would end up being caught with my pants down, quite literally, and then I’d be shunned, which is what Jehovah’s Witnesses do to each other when they’re pissed off. By the time I got to my GCSEs, I’d decided I wanted to become an actor. I left school at sixteen and managed to get a job at the Shanklin Theatre, working backstage, but two years later I left the island and came up to London. I think my family was quite glad to see me go. I’ve never been back.’
James couldn’t afford drama school but got his training elsewhere. He met a man in a bar and was introduced to a producer who used him in a number of films that would not enjoy a premiere on mainstream British television. I’m the one being coy. He was frank and filthy about his career in hard-core porn and as the second bottle of wine kicked in, we both found ourselves laughing uproariously. He was also working as a rent boy – in London and Amsterdam. ‘I didn’t mind doing it,’ he said. ‘A few of my clients were pervy and disgusting but most of them were fine, middle-aged men who were absolutely terrified of being found out. I had plenty of regulars, I can tell you. I enjoyed the sex and the money and I made sure I looked after myself.’ James had managed to rent a small flat in West Kensington and he worked out of there. One of his clients was a casting director and he even managed to get him a few legitimate parts.
And then he met Alan Conway.
‘Alan was a typical client. He was married. He had a young son. He had found my picture and contact details on the Internet and for a long time he didn’t even tell me his name. He didn’t want me to know he was a famous writer because he thought I’d blackmail him or sell my story to the Sunday newspapers or something. But that’s just silly. No one does that any more.’ James only found out who he was when he saw Alan on breakfast TV, promoting one of his books. Actually, that rang a bell for me. When the Atticus Pünd novels had started selling, Alan had done everything he could not to appear on television, the exact opposite, in fact, of all our other authors. At the time, I’d assumed he was shy. But if he was leading this double life, it made complete sense.
We had finished the main course and both bottles and staggered out into the yard for a cigarette. It was a clear night and sitting under the stars, with a very pale, slither of a moon in the black sky, James became thoughtful. ‘I really liked Alan, you know,’ he said. ‘He could be a miserable old bastard, especially when he was writing one of his books. All that money he was making from his detective stories, it never seemed to make him happy. But I did. That’s not such a bad thing, is it? Whatever people may think or say, he needed me. At first he just paid me for the night. Then we went on a couple of trips. He took me to Paris and Vienna. He told Melissa he was doing research. He even got me onto a book tour in America. If anyone asked, he said I was his PA and we had separate rooms in every hotel but of course they had adjoining doors. By that time he’d put me on an allowance and I wasn’t allowed to see anyone else.’
He blew out smoke, then gazed at the glowing tip of his cigarette.
‘Alan liked watching me smoke,’ he said. ‘After we’d had sex, I’d smoke a cigarette, naked, and he’d watch me. I’m sorry I let him down.’
‘How did you do that?’ I asked.
‘I got itchy feet. He had his books and his writing and I was getting bored, sitting in Framlingham. I was more than twenty years younger than him, you know. There was nothing here for me. So I started going back to London. I said I was visiting friends, but Alan knew what I was doing. It was obvious. We had arguments about it but I wouldn’t stop and in the end he threw me out, gave me a month to pack my bags. When you and I met, I was two days away from being homeless. Part of me had hoped we might have a reconciliation, but actually I was quite glad it was all over. I wasn’t interested in the money. People looked at the two of us together and they think that’s all I cared about but it’s not true. I cared about him.’
We went back inside and, over several whiskies, James told me about his plans for the future, forgetting that he had already done so. He was going on holiday for a while – somewhere hot. He was going to try acting again. ‘I might even go to drama school. I can afford it now.’ Despite what he had said about Alan, he had already started another relationship, this time with a boy closer to his age. I don’t know why, but looking at him as he sat at the table with his long hair flowing and his eyes blurred by alcohol, I suddenly got the feeling that it wouldn’t end well for him. It was a curious thought but perhaps he had needed Alan Conway in much the same way as James Fraser had needed Atticus Pünd. There was no other place for him in the story.
He had come by car but I wouldn’t let him drive himself home, even if it was only a mile up the road. Feeling like an elderly aunt, I confiscated his keys and made the hotel call him a taxi.
‘I should stay here,’ he said. ‘I can afford a room. I can afford the whole hotel.’
They were the last words he spoke to me before he left, weaving uncertainly into the night.
‘He used to hide things …’
James was right. In Gin & Cyanide, which is set in London, there are characters called Leyton Jones, Victoria Wilson, Michael Latimer, Brent Andrews and Warwick Stevens. All these names are taken partly, or in their entirety, from tube stations. The two killers, Linda Cole and Matilda Orre are both anagrams: of Colindale on the Northern Line and Latimer Road. The gay writers make up the cast of Red Roses for Atticus. In Atticus Pünd Takes the Case, well – you can work it out for yourself.
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