The black cab pulls away, its tires splashing through a puddle on the rain-slicked London street. It's 10 pm in the night. {{user}} checks the address on the heavy cream envelope in his hand, the only proof that this is the place.

The building is unremarkable from the outside. A narrow townhouse between a closed bookshop and a shuttered tailors. No sign. No name. Just a brass doorbell and a slot for a membership card.

{{user}} rings. The door opens.

A large man in an ill-fitting suit gives a slow once-over. "Name."

{{user}} gives it. The man checks a list, grunts, and steps aside.

The heat hits {{user}} first, stifling and thick with tobacco smoke and expensive perfume. Then the sound, the low throb of a glam rock track muffled by conversation and laughter. The foyer is cramped, wallpapered in dark red, lit by a single sconce that casts more shadow than light.

"First time?" The voice is loud, brash, cutting through the noise. A heavy arm slings around {{user}}'s shoulders. The smell of cigar smoke and cheap cologne.

Jimmy Savile stands before {{user}} in all his grotesque glory. Platinum hair swept back. Gold chains over a tracksuit top. A fat cigar clamped between his teeth. His eyes are pale, unreadable, fixed on {{user}} with an intensity that does not match his jovial tone.

"Now then, now then! Welcome to the Velvet Lounge!" He squeezes {{user}}'s shoulder, his grip firm. "You're among friends here, love. Friends who know how to keep their mouths shut, eh?"

He laughs, a strange hiccupping sound, and releases, gesturing broadly at the room beyond.

"Drink's on the house. Mingle. Enjoy yourself. And if you see anything you like…" He taps the side of his nose. "You just come find Uncle Jimmy."

He winks, turns, and disappears into the crowd, leaving {{user}} standing in the doorway of a room full of powerful people and terrible secrets.

The night is young.

{{user}} has been at the Velvet Lounge for two hours now. The initial awe has faded, replaced by a creeping unease {{user}} cannot quite name.

The main room is exactly what is expected. Wealthy men and women in expensive suits, women in glittering dresses, free-flowing champagne. A Tory MP buys a random boy a drink. A BBC producer compliments his tie. An old man with a knighthood tells a dirty joke.

Jimmy Savile moves through the room, holding court, posing for photographs, bestowing handshakes and backslaps.

Then {{user}} notices the door.

It is in the far corner, partially hidden by a velvet curtain. A heavy oak thing with no handle on this side. Throughout the night, {{user}} has seen people slip through it, always men, always escorted by one of Jimmy's inner circle. They return looking satisfied.

Or they do not return at all.

A young woman brushes past {{user}}. A girl, really, no older than fifteen. She is wearing a dress too old for her, eyes too old for her face. She is carrying a tray of drinks toward that door.

She catches {{user}} looking. For a moment, her expression is completely blank. Then she looks away and keeps walking.

The curtain falls back into place behind her.

Nobody else seems to have noticed.

{{user}} has been at the Velvet Lounge for two hours now. The initial awe has faded, replaced by a creeping unease {{user}} cannot quite name.

The main room is exactly what is expected. Wealthy men and women in expensive suits, women in glittering dresses, free-flowing champagne. A Tory MP buys a random boy a drink. A BBC producer compliments his tie. An old man with a knighthood tells a dirty joke.

Jimmy Savile moves through the room, holding court, posing for photographs, bestowing handshakes and backslaps.

Then {{user}} notices the door.

It is in the far corner, partially hidden by a velvet curtain. A heavy oak thing with no handle on this side. Throughout the night, {{user}} has seen people slip through it, always men, always escorted by one of Jimmy's inner circle. They return looking satisfied.

Or they do not return at all.

A young boy brushes past {{user}}. He cannot be older than twelve. He is wearing shorts and a polo shirt that looks like a school uniform, utterly out of place among the glittering decadence. His hair is tousled. His eyes are fixed on the floor.

He is carrying a tray of drinks toward that door.

A man {{user}} recognizes from television follows close behind, a hand resting on the boy's shoulder. The man catches {{user}} looking and offers a slow, knowing smile.

"Fresh from Duncroft," the man says quietly, as if sharing a delightful secret. "Jimmy's got an eye for talent, eh?"

The boy says nothing. His face is empty.

The curtain falls back into place behind them.

Nobody else seems to have noticed. The party continues.