In the flat, there was always noise, bearing down on the walls. At any time, there was shouting in the street, sirens, the noise of heels on the pavement. Buses heaved towards the City. Gabriel could see the faces of the passengers on the top deck when they passed, features mutated by graffiti or steam. When he was hungover he sat on the arm of the sofa and watched them, calculating the hours left in the dwindling day. Waiting for it to end.

The worst thing was that the Rages returned. The first time was in the flat: the doorbell rang while they were sleeping, and a courier greeted Gabriel on the doorstep. ‘Mr Alvin?’ he asked. He was carrying a great selection of parcels – Gabriel had to make two trips up the stairs – which Gabriel and Oliver opened together. They were full of beautiful clothes, printed scarves and soft white shirts and a selection of silk ties, and as Oliver unwrapped a leather jacket, he began to laugh. ‘I remember, I think,’ he said, ‘ordering these when I was fucked.’

Gabriel couldn’t breathe.

‘I thought – what else might my sober self need – but presents?’

The Rage seized Gabriel so quickly that he had no time to remember how to subdue it. All he could recall was that he was on the floor, his skull bucking against the carpet, watching Oliver’s face above him. Humour had contorted into panic, and Gabriel felt a strange satisfaction spread beneath his fury, which lasted long after the Rage had passed. The parcels were returned.

Gabriel couldn’t afford to pay the rent and to pay for his and Oliver’s habits, and so he defaulted. There came a point when Oliver had sold his watch; his suits; half-bottles of cologne. Even the white goods from the flat had gone, which hadn’t belonged to them in the first place. The only items of value left were the artefacts from Moor Woods Road.

Gabriel liked to think that he had resisted Oliver’s suggestion to sell them for many weeks, but it was unlikely to be the case: alcohol made him pliant, easy to twist into this shape or that, and he was drunk all of the fucking time. Oliver had already created an account on a website which specialised in true crime memorabilia. They used a computer in the local library to offer out the items – Oliver’s laptop had been sold, too – and worked on the wording together.

UNIQUE items from the REAL House of Horrors:

Your own piece of memorabilia from the Gracie House of Horrors. Choose from:

Blanket owned by Gabriel Gracie (as seen in this photograph by Isaac Brachmann, nominated for several major awards)

Diary of Gabriel Gracie (recordings from age 7–8) – approx. 20 pages

Letter from Delilah Gracie to Gabriel Gracie WHEN CAPTIVE, 2 pages

Never-seen-before family photographs x5

Family Bible owned by Charles and Deborah Gracie

Verification of goods available if required. Discounts negotiable for full set.

They slept together, their ankles entwined, and in the morning, when Oliver could move, they walked back to the library to check on the bids.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Oliver said, and flung his arms around Gabriel’s shoulders.

There were some substantial bids for the individual items – a few hundred pounds for the diary, for example – but an anonymous bidder had offered two and a half thousand pounds for the full set. ‘I’ve followed your story with great interest,’ Oliver read, from the accompanying note, ‘and think of you often.’ He snorted, still gleeful. ‘It sounds like you still have your fans.’

By the time bidding closed, six days later, the items had sold to the same bidder for just over three thousand pounds. Oliver went from the library to his dealer, and Gabriel returned to the flat with a range of envelopes, and unlocked the drawer of his bedside table. This was where he stored the little collection of items, close to where he slept and away from Oliver’s sight. Now they would be preserved in a different house, one that he wasn’t able to picture. He read his own laboured account of the days at Moor Woods Road, letters tumbling from their lines and landing, one on top of the other, at the bottom of the page. Not a happy day, he had written, and Delilah is very pretty, and Lots of running today. He had never been particularly eloquent, then or now; nobody had taught him, the way that his siblings had taught one another. He found that he was crying, and he tucked the diary into an envelope. Water damage might knock a few hundred off. It was time for the celebration.

That night he was as drunk as he had ever been. He bought a half-litre of vodka on the way to meet Oliver, and by the time he reached the pub he was smiling and soft. He couldn’t see Oliver at the bar, or at any of the tables, and he walked through to the garden. There was a moment – he had just walked down the steps, and below the line of the afternoon sun – when the whole night came into view before him. Here was Oliver, his arm around a woman Gabriel didn’t know. Here were his eyes, already wild. Here was his smile. Gabriel knew that he would consume whatever fell onto the surfaces before him, and that thoughts of the envelopes on his bed – of anything, very much – would stop here.

He woke up many hours later, in a bedroom which he didn’t recognize.

He fumbled for his glasses. The world before his right eye was cracked in three.

There was a fur blanket on the bed, matted with his sweat, and a cat sitting at the threshold. ‘Hello,’ he said, and the animal turned, and padded away.