Liz Nugent - Unraveling Oliver

My brother, Philip, wrote to me six months after the trial. I can only imagine his sanctimonious hand-wringing. I’m sure he agonized over whether writing to me was the “right thing to do.” He offered his services as a chaplain or confessor in case I should ever want to “unburden” myself. He assured me that God’s forgiveness is possible and that, if nothing else, he was “always there to listen.” Rubbish.

I miss Alice.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat the food here, but actually it’s quite good and there’s plenty of it. I have eaten less well in Michelin-starred restaurants, though the presentation could use a little attention.

The building in which I am housed is a decrepit Victorian institution, impressively daunting on the exterior and drab with neglect and stained Formica surfaces on the interior. Men and women are segregated. That suits me fine.

I have my own room, so in a lot of respects it is better than boarding school was, although my housemates are a peculiar bunch of miscreants. I remember years ago, one of my less imaginative colleagues in the civil service had a “witty” sign on his desk that said, You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps! It wasn’t even funny at the time.

It is not a ma d house, however; it is a sad house. Everyone here has committed crimes deemed to result from their insanity. I feel like I am here under false pretenses, but that is nothing new for me. Almost my entire life has been a deception of one kind or another. I am not obliged to mix with the others, and I spend most of my time voluntarily alone.

There is a working farm within the grounds, and even though it has been quite a while since I did any manual labor, I have enjoyed getting my hands dirty. I am no longer a young man, but I am fitter than I have been in decades.

I am a model “patient.” They don’t call us prisoners in the nuthouse. “It’s political correctness gone mad!” I hear all the time. I agree. The guards and nurses are decent, and I cause them no trouble. It is generally acknowledged in here that my crime was a “one-off.” I “snapped.” I am on a low-dosage antidepressant and go placidly amid the noise and haste.

I will have a mental health review every six months to decide if I am sane or not, but if I am declared sane, I might be released and that would never do. I have decided to stay here, because even though I am not a danger to society, or myself, I don’t want to leave. I plan to fake a suicide attempt if they ever suggest it.

The house has been sold. All proceeds from the sale went toward the continued care of Alice and maintenance payments to Barney Dwyer for Eugene. Alice is in a private facility. The lawyers told me she is in a beautiful room and is receiving the very best of treatment, but she will never know it. It is likely that she could continue in this state for years. Copyright and royalties from the books have been assigned to Madame Véronique and I am denounced internationally, but particularly in France, for stealing from a war hero and profiting from his death and that of his grandson. If only they knew that it was worse than that, that I was the one to cause their deaths. I have never told the analysts that part of my story. It would cause such a fuss. Why add arson and murder to the list of my crimes?

Journalists have made several attempts to visit, offering to ghostwrite my story. The insult. I turned down their offensive requests. All but one particular French journalist. At least, I assumed she was a journalist. Her letters to me were more formal than the others, and she was not easily put off. Her name is Annalise Babin. I ignored her first five letters and then finally responded to the sixth, thanking her for her interest but declining an interview, regretting that I would not be putting her on my visitors list. There is nobody on my visitors list.

A month ago, she wrote back the most startling letter.

She is apparently a lawyer, not a journalist, but she has no interest in my case or the charges against me. She says she has recently become a mother for the first time, and the birth of her precious son has led her on a path of discovery that she almost wishes she never began.

Her birth was registered in the city of Bordeaux, France, as being on the eleventh of March 1974 in a small village called Clochamps. Her name at birth was Nora Condell. She was placed for adoption on the twentieth of July of the same year. Annalise is hoping that I might be able to help her trace her father. It has been implied to her that her mother named me as her father.

Laura’s baby. My child.

She admits that she is confused as to how to feel about this, that after two years of searching records she discovers her father could be a violent criminal and a plagiarist.

Laura’s name is on Annalise’s original birth certificate as her mother. She knows from her research that Laura is dead and that it was a suicide. She assumes her birth might have precipitated her mother’s death. She has been able to track down photographs of Laura through her old school’s website, and although the shape and color of her eyes are similar, in one distinct aspect she is not like Laura at all. She began to do some searching to see if she could find her father instead. The father’s name is not listed on her birth certificate, but Annalise has made contact with the adoption social worker who dealt with Laura. Apparently Laura insisted that the father was an Irish student called Oliver Ryan, but she was not allowed to name me on the birth certificate. Annalise was able to quickly discover that Oliver Ryan was better known as the infamous Vincent Dax. She has studied photographs of me from the covers of my books and has seen film footage of me on YouTube from some television appearances, and she has noted a striking resemblance between us in our mannerisms and way of speaking that cannot be ignored; and yet, she says, “something is wrong” because Annalise is of mixed race, and clearly “you and my mother are white Europeans.”

My hands began to shake again, and I laid the letter onto my desk so that I could stop the words from dancing.

My daughter is nothing if not dogged in her pursuit of truth.

I have recently availed of a personal genomic service to have my DNA genetically profiled. It seems that my ethnicity is specifically at least 25 percent sub-Saharan African, which would indicate that one of my parents is of mixed race, i.e., one of my grandparents is black. I was able to find out that both of Laura’s parents are Irish born, but can find little or no information about your parentage. I note that your coloring is darker than the average Irishman, although your features are undoubtedly “white.”

Studies in genomic theory are advancing at a rapid rate thanks to the new data available from DNA mapping, and science now tells us that skin color is not determined by only one gene. Instead, it is determined by many (polygenic inheritance). Therefore there are many factors that have a role in the skin color of a person besides the skin colors of their parents. It may still be possible that you are my father if you have any ethnic ancestry.

She proposed to visit me in order to do a DNA swab test. She assured me it is a simple, noninvasive procedure. She was coming to Dublin and hoped that I would agree to meet her.

Having watched the video footage of you many times, I think it most likely that we are, in fact, related. I do not know if this will be a source of shame to you or what your views of racial harmony might be, but please bear in mind that when I set out to find my parents, I did not for one moment think that I might find one in jail. The wonderful parents that raised me would be horrified if they thought that this might be the case, and I have no wish to tell them. Nor would I want to go public if this turns out to be true.