‘In breaking news, two more people, twenty- and twenty-two-year-old brothers Joseph and Freddie Henley, have been named anonymously as victims of murder on the forum, the Confession Room.
‘Early investigations indicate that they were snatched from their home where they live with their parents who were away visiting friends in Surrey.
‘Joseph and Freddie are the third set of people to be named on the forum in this way. However, this is the first occasion where family members have been named together. As always, the police have urged the public to be vigilant at this time and to refrain from visiting the forum.
‘We will now pass over to Detective Chief Inspector Henry Holden, who is live:
‘“We are deeply disturbed at the naming of two more people on the forum, the Confession Room. The previous cases have both followed the same pattern and we are highly concerned for Joseph and Freddie. We are working around the clock to find them and bring the perpetrators of these serial crimes to justice.
‘“We would strongly advise and recommend that at this time, people in the Greater London area should avoid going out on their own at night, and if possible, should follow a seven p.m. curfew except where night-time travel is absolutely necessary.”’
Emilia turns off the television, feeling nothing but emptiness. As if all the emotions she felt earlier – all the emotions she has ever felt – have been scraped out of her, piece by piece, until there is nothing left.
A curfew? This can’t be real, surely? When was the last time a curfew was imposed because of a murderer? The Yorkshire Ripper? And look how well that turned out. There were protests in the streets, the unleashing of the rage of thousands of women who refused to be turned into prisoners because of the actions of one man.
But this isn’t just women … The victims could be anyone. The Confession Room killers are not discriminating; they don’t seem to be targeting anyone in particular. They are drawing out people – people in relationships, people who love each other – and forcing them to confess. And then they make their judgement.
What will the Henleys be made to confess? Their parents have been on the news, speaking to the reporters who gave them less than a few hours’ peace: they have stood together, arm in arm, the prospect of loss glazed over the surface of their eyes.
Emilia heads over to her desk and reaches for her phone, clicking on her client’s most recent message, hesitating just for a moment before she taps out a response.
Hi Violet. Many apologies for failing to communicate with you. Something has occurred in my personal life and I will have to take some time off. I will message again soon but understand if you wish to find another detective.
She taps the arrow and listens as the message whooshes away. Usually, letting somebody down like this would swamp her with guilt, but it all seems so insignificant.
The Henleys’ house was overrun with police within minutes. Officers moving across the crime scene, cordoning off the house, the road, speaking to neighbours. The parents arrived, the mother falling to her knees. ‘We only left for two nights!’ she wailed, as her husband held her, her face buried into his chest, his face fixed with bewilderment, unable to understand how this was happening to him, to his wife and his two children. And all Emilia could do was sit in the passenger seat of Ciaran’s car and watch.
He has been messaging non-stop since she left the scene, escorted back to the house by a police officer at his insistence, but she keeps telling him that she is fine, that he just needs to focus on the case, that he shouldn’t worry about her, even though she feels so rattled she can’t eat and her stomach is constantly churning.
Emilia turns to her computer, staring at the forum which is open, as always. She wishes now that she had never heard of it – wishing that its very existence came as a shock. If only she could detach from it. Others will watch what’s happening on the news and look on in horror, but after some minutes pass, they will forget it, moving on to focus on something else.
But her? She is consumed by it.
Every breath. Every step. Consumed.
The hashtag on Twitter is relentless, constantly refreshing, hundreds of comments every second. The police have asked countless times for people to stop discussing it on social media, to stop visiting the forum, but … how can hundreds of thousands of people be prevented from gorging on this as if it is entertainment? It’s spreading, a wildfire that has no hope of being extinguished. And with each comment that is posted, each video that is shared, the reactions growing exponentially more visceral and outraged and emotional, they are feeding the beast. They are giving the killers what they want. There’s a reason they have made all of this public, posting the videos online and confessing before it even happens. They are bolstered by the attention, basking in its glowing light, their violence fired up by the frenzy. In a case with so many questions, Emilia is sure of one thing: we have made it worse.
Her eyes narrow as a new hashtag is suggested at the top of her search screen.
#ConfessionRoomVigil
She clicks on it and then scrolls, scanning the posts, most of which are the same tweet shared over and over again – the hashtag suspended above an image:
#ConfessionRoomVigil
A VIGIL FOR THE VICTIMS OF THE CONFESSION ROOM
AT 7 P.M. ON THE 12TH NOVEMBER THERE WILL BE A CANDLELIT VIGIL IN HOLMER HILL PARK FOR THE VICTIMS OF THE CONFESSION ROOM.
WE REFUSE TO KEEP TO A CURFEW OR LIVE IN FEAR OF THESE MONSTERS WHO ARE SNATCHING OUR LOVED ONES.
IF YOU FEEL TOO SCARED TO COME – REMEMBER: WE ARE NOT SAFE AT HOME EITHER! THE HENLEYS WERE TAKEN FROM INSIDE THEIR OWN HOUSE!
JOIN US – LIGHT A CANDLE – STAND UP TO THE EVIL OF THE CONFESSION ROOM KILLERS.
SHOW HAYLEY JAMES, LUCA FRANCO, GREGORY WEISS AND ANY OTHER VICTIM THAT THEY WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN.
SHOW ISABELLA SANTOS AND THE HENLEYS THAT THEY ARE NOT ALONE.
DO NOT FEAR.
WE ARE SAFER TOGETHER.
The image has been shared 456,343 times. There are countless posts of people committing to attend, hundreds of people from all over the country – all over the world – insisting that people should refuse the curfew and take to the streets. And aren’t they speaking the truth? Is Emilia in more danger here, alone in her flat, than out there?
A door slams on the laptop and her skin turns cold.
A new confession.
And before she even turns to the forum, she knows what it will be. Just like clockwork: the video. But which Henley will appear on the screen? Freddie? Or Joseph?
She clicks on the link and waits, her gaze blurring as the video loads, her mind attempting in some feeble way to transport itself to somewhere else, anywhere other than here. She knows what’s going to be in this video … one of them dying while the other watches. So why does she feel such a compulsive urge to watch? Why does she have no doubt that all over the country – all over the world – there are people watching it at this very moment? Why do they need to see it? What is it that pushes us towards the darkest parts of humanity?
The video loads and her eyes instantly focus, her heart beating faster and faster, her breaths shallow.
THE CONFESSION ROOM. THE HENLEY BROTHERS.
Chills run down her arms. The Henley Brothers … When the confession was posted, they named them individually. It was the media, the public – social forums – that dubbed them ‘the Henley Brothers’. Are they taunting everyone? Are they holding up a mirror to say: look at what you are doing?
The footage begins to play.
A face appears, the footage zoomed in, just like the previous two, the skin red-raw, the eyes dazed.
‘Freddie, it’s counting down!’
Freddie. It’s Freddie. He blinks slowly, his eyes almost sleepy, as if he is just waking from a dream. There is no blind panic like in the previous videos, no angry outbursts.
‘I don’t know what they want me to say,’ he whispers.
‘Just say something, Fred! Do something!’
He stares blankly, the edge of his lip curling upwards. ‘Don’t act like you’re scared for me, Joe. You’re desperate for it to be me.’
‘Please, Freddie! Just play by the rules!’
‘What fucking rules? This isn’t a game we can win. It’s rigged. One of us is gonna die. And you hate my fucking guts, so just shut your mouth and let it be done.’
Joseph cries out and Freddie rolls his eyes, scoffing.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ he mutters, setting his jaw. ‘Nothing that I need to confess –’
‘Well, there must be something, because they’ve chosen you! What about those forums you go on?’
‘Oh fuck off, Joseph. What, because I go on forums and complain about my lot –’
‘Complain about your lot?’ Joseph shouts, suddenly fuelled by anger. ‘They’re Incel sites, it’s full of men who hate women – violent, horrible men!’
‘So now I deserve to die?’
‘I never said that! Freddie, you need to do something – think of Mum and Dad –’
‘Oh, I am,’ Freddie says, glaring at him. ‘You’re the golden child and I’m the problem. If Mum and Dad could choose one of us to save, it would be you. So just fuck off and leave me alone.’
The screen turns black.
Emilia shoves the mouse forward and clicks the X in the top right-hand corner. The low buzz of white noise from the video disappears and she is back in her living room again, the confines of the forum evaporating around her. She exhales slowly, releasing the breath that she had been holding, unable to steady her hands which are trembling violently.
She can’t watch any more. She can’t play witness as the hand-held camera returns. She can’t stare blankly as Joseph cries in the background. She can’t simply wait for what everyone knows will come once the footage resumes:
Freddie’s face, the video shaking.
The inevitable gunshot.
And then silence.