The crowd outside the Dandy Fox is three people deep: groups of men in their after-work uniform, suits with loosened ties and unbuttoned collars; women balancing on one foot then the other, freshly reapplied lipstick staining the rims of their wine glasses.
Emilia stands on the pavement opposite. Her hands are clasped in front of her as she searches the many faces for the man in the photo. Harris Keaton. She rubs her palms down the sides of her dress: they are clammy, even in the winter chill.
He isn’t there. At least, she can’t spot his face in the crowd.
I can’t do this, she thinks. I can’t.
She hasn’t dressed up in so long: the fitted black dress is alien, the heels – which she wore so easily for years – uncomfortable. Painful, even. A long cream coat is tossed casually over her arm, as if she has just left her office and darted across the road for a quick one. She has created a whole story in her head: why she is there, who she is. He won’t recognize her, will he? Surely she’ll just be another face in a packed bar? But her face has been all over the news, on the front of all the papers. So … there will have to be Plan A and Plan B. In Plan A, she is just an interested stranger: high-flying City girl, here for a drink after a busy day at work. In Plan B, she will have to be Emilia. Drinking away the trauma of what she has been through. Searching for comfort in the arms of a stranger.
I can’t do this.
She looks down at her phone, the response from Ciaran still open on the screen:
Don’t worry, I understand. Spend tonight with your parents and I’ll come over at the end of my shift tomorrow. Sound good? Love you x
A loud laugh rings out across the road, above all the other noise, and Emilia pushes her phone back into her handbag.
Inhaling deeply, she quickly looks both ways and then steps into the road, her eyes fixed on the door. She’ll look inside first, and if he isn’t there, she’ll just have to wait outside with a cigarette and keep searching.
The door opens as she reaches for it and a group of men push their way outside, each of them briefly looking her up and down before moving on. She waits, her foot tapping impatiently on the ground, her arms wrapped around her. But the last in their group, a younger guy – he looks out of place – stops, holding his arm out to gesture inside.
‘After you,’ he says, holding the door open.
‘Thank you,’ Emilia says with a smile.
But as she meets his eyes, bright and blue, Ryan’s dead stare bursts into her mind.
She rushes past him, into the warmth of the bar, pulsing with bodies.
‘You’re welcome,’ the man says, glancing over his shoulder at her. But she daren’t look him in the face again. It will be Ryan looking back.
Emilia scans the bar, taking in the way to the toilets, the fire exit, the stairs to another room on the upper floor, her mind automatically searching for an escape route. What if they are here? Are they watching her right now? Is she in danger?
The room is heaving, every table filled, people standing in all the spaces in-between. She scans every face as she moves through the crowd, pushing and sliding between bodies, some waiting for drinks, others simply standing wherever they’ve been able to find a space. The atmosphere is electric. A year ago, Emilia would have loved this. She would have fed off the feeling in the air, surrounded herself with friends, laughing and singing into the night. But now? That same atmosphere is pulsating with menace, thick and heavy, pressing down.
She reaches the bar and turns, leaning against it to survey the room. The man closest to her turns his head, appraising her, his gaze burning as it shifts down her body to her legs and then back up. She flashes a brief disarming smile. He looks away quickly, calling out to the bar staff, acting as if he had never even glanced her way.
Emilia bites her lip, dropping her head in frustration. Why did she smile at him? Why do we do this? To appease? To deflect? To make sure that we don’t make them angry? Is that what Sophie tried to do? Did she try to pander quietly to Ryan when she should have responded with outrage? Lashed out with violence?
No. Don’t think about Sophie.
Do not think about Ryan.
‘Can I get you something?’ the man asks, leaning towards her.
‘No, thank you,’ she says, not even glancing his way. Instead, she turns, and leans in towards the barman.
‘Could I have a gin and tonic, please?’
‘Coming right up,’ he says.
She waits, pointedly keeping her attention away from the man. Her leg shakes, energy pulsating through her.
‘Here you are,’ the barman places the drink down in front of her. She reaches into her bag and slams a ten-pound note down on to the bar.
‘Thanks,’ she says, turning quickly to search the crowd one last time before heading to the exit. He isn’t in here. And sitting at the bar is just asking for trouble. It’s asking for questions.
The cold air hits her as she steps through the doors to the outside. Emilia inhales sharply, tugging her coat on awkwardly, passing the drink from one hand to the other.
Slowly, she moves away from the doors, through the mass of people standing just outside, and heads to the right, towards the benches that line one side of the pub. More people have gathered there, so she walks past them, methodically taking in their faces. But as she reaches the last bench, her slowly sinking stomach lifts – is that him?
Yes.
There, beyond the benches, where a few people are standing apart from the crowd, some staring at their phones, others huddled over a cigarette, is the man from the photo. Harris Keaton. The next victim.
Who is he? Why are they targeting him? Is he a hateful, violent man? Dangerous? He looks just like any other man spending his Thursday evening drinking and laughing with friends. But they – the man and woman – would argue that that is precisely what makes him dangerous. That is what helps men like him and Ryan, and Gregory, and all the others, hide in plain sight.
Emilia takes a steadying breath, straightens her spine, lowers her shoulders.
She can do this.
She has to do this.
Exhaling quickly, she strides towards him then slows down as if she is coming to a natural stop just feet away from him.
She sneaks a quick sideways glance at him. But he doesn’t look her way. He is reading something – scrolling through some kind of website.
Emilia opens her bag and pulls out the cigarettes she bought earlier from the corner shop next to the station. She slides one out of the packet. It feels strange between her fingers, sending her back to her nights at university, the sting of tobacco as it hit the back of her throat, the rush, the smell of it in her clothes and hair the following morning.
She coughs lightly, readying herself. But panic is taking hold of her voice. The words which are ready, perfectly formed, remain strangled at the back of her throat.
‘Excuse me?’ She forces the words out through gritted teeth.
He lifts his head, meeting her eye for a moment before glancing around him to check if she is speaking to somebody else. ‘Yeah?’ he responds, one eyebrow arched in a question.
‘Could I borrow a lighter?’ she asks, forcing her tone to soften. She holds up her unlit cigarette.
‘Sure.’
But he doesn’t move towards her. He stays where he is, feet planted, his chin tilting forwards.
She crosses over to him in two short steps and waits as he pulls the lighter out from the inside pocket of his dark blue tailored suit. The lighter sparks and he waves at her to lean in. She already wants to run away, something about him and his expectant stare triggering shivers of revulsion inside her. But she can’t run away. She is meant to leave with this man – take him back to her house. Her stomach churning, Emilia meets his eye, placing the cigarette lightly between her pursed lips. She leans in slowly with a small smile, never breaking her gaze. The cigarette lights and she inhales deeply, holding down the cough that wants to burst out of her after years of never tasting a cigarette. Instead she sighs as she breathes out the smoke, as if it is the greatest pleasure.
‘Thank you,’ she says softly, looking at him sideways, her hand tucked under her chin. ‘I needed that.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says.
They stand beside each other in silence, both staring up at the cloud-covered night sky.
‘It was so packed in there,’ Emilia says, breaking the quiet before it becomes too awkward and he makes his excuses and moves away. ‘I was gagging for some fresh air.’ She glances at the cigarette and flashes an ironic smile.
‘Funny, that,’ he says with a low chuckle. ‘Although … same. Needed to get away from all the work lot for a moment.’
‘Don’t you like them?’
He pauses, looking away from her and down at his foot which he scuffs against the pavement. ‘No, I do … it’s just … you spend all day with these people and then socialize with them once, twice a week as well. And a leaving party like this – it’s like the whole company comes. It can get a bit much.’
‘I get it … No wife to go home to?’
His chin lifts abruptly, not sure how to take her question. But Emilia doesn’t look away, forcing a suggestive, flirtatious smile.
‘No … no wife. Not any more.’
Emilia licks her lips, holding eye contact for one moment longer before looking up at the sky again, taking another drag of her cigarette.
‘How about you?’ He inches closer. ‘Boyfriend? Husband?’
‘No,’ she says, ignoring the image of Ciaran that immediately filters into her mind. ‘Neither.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She smirks at him and he turns to fully face her, his hands hooked into the pockets of his suit. ‘What kind of question is that?’
‘Well, a woman like you … why wouldn’t you have a partner?’
‘Many reasons. Besides …’ She tucks her hair behind her ear, her fingers tangling through the ends. ‘There’s more fun to be had when I’m single.’
He exhales loudly, his mouth shaped in an ‘oh’. Chewing the bottom of his lip, his eyes dance over her face and she raises her eyebrows. But after a moment, his gaze narrows.
‘You know, your face is so familiar.’
Emilia’s stomach plummets, her breath catching. ‘Oh, not that “I’ve seen you before” line –’
‘No, really … I just can’t place it but I’ve definitely seen you before … You’re not famous, are you?’
‘No, I’m not famous –’
‘Wait.’ He falls completely still, his eyes widening. And there it is, the moment Emilia had been dreading; the look she had been praying wouldn’t happen. Recognition.
‘Are you Emilia Haines?’
Emilia’s protestations die on her lips. Every emotion is churning inside her: anger and frustration, sadness and embarrassment, absolute outrage at the complete lack of self-awareness of this man in front of her. But there’s no point denying it. He has recognized her – and any arguments to the contrary will only push him away. Plan A is no longer possible. She’ll have to go with Plan B.
‘I am,’ she whispers.
He straightens his head, his eyes shining with a strange expression Emilia can’t quite pin down. Intrigue? Interest? No … it’s triumph. He’s pleased that he was right. So unaware of what she must be feeling, only interested in the fact that a survivor of the Confession Room is in front of him, and that he recognized her when seemingly nobody else did.
Her eyes fill with tears. But she doesn’t attempt to pull them back or blink them away as she normally would. She lets them fall, allowing her mouth to crumple with emotion, her hand lifting to cover her face.
‘Oh shit,’ he whispers. ‘Are you … are you okay?’
Am I okay? Emilia thinks, exasperated.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, blinking up at him through her wet lashes. ‘I … I came out tonight because I’ve been at home ever since it happened and I just needed to be around people. To have somebody to talk to –’
She wraps her arms around herself, allowing herself to cry. The emotion real, albeit targeted. For a purpose. He moves even closer, his hands extended, unsure whether to comfort her or back away. So Emilia steps forward, into his space. He pauses – shocked – his eyes falling on to her mouth. Her stomach turns. Is he aroused by this? Is a vulnerable woman, a crying woman, some kind of sick turn-on? She is desperate to push him away but instead she rocks her head forward on to his shoulder and, just as anticipated, he places his hands on her back. He makes hushing noises but it seems unnatural, as if he has never made an effort to comfort another person in his life.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just … I’ve been following the case since the beginning and recognized you. I’m sorry if you were upset.’
Emilia sniffs, pulling away slightly to look up at him again, their faces only inches apart, her eyes wide and innocent. ‘It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way. Besides … it’s been nice talking to you.’
He nods, his hands not leaving her back, his fingers pressing into her spine and her waist. ‘You too. You’ve made my night a lot better, that’s for sure.’
She glances away purposefully, her eyes circling down to the ground with feigned shyness before returning to him. ‘Well … I’m going to head home now but … I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me?’
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he simply looks at her, his head tilted, his fingers scratching at the day and a half stubble on his jawline.
A sudden pang of guilt hits Emilia square in the chest. But she doesn’t have a choice. Who knows what they’ll do if she doesn’t follow their instructions? These aren’t normal people. This wouldn’t just be breaking the rules. This would be going against two people who can murder without a second thought. Two people who have convinced themselves that they are doing some good in the world. Two people who know where her parents live.
‘What do you say?’ she urges. ‘I could really use some … company.’
He blinks slowly, as if he is processing what she is asking. But then he nods firmly. ‘Sure. I’d love to … Can I have a swig of your drink?’ His cheeks flush red. ‘Need a bit of Dutch courage.’
She smiles and holds out the drink. ‘Sure.’
He takes it, gulping loudly, his eyes bulging as he raises his chin up to the sky.
‘Finish it – I don’t want any more,’ Emilia says, dropping her cigarette and stubbing it out with the ball of her foot. ‘Shall we go?’
He nods again, eagerly, placing the glass down on the nearest bench and mirroring her action of letting his cigarette fall to the floor. It lies there, smouldering. He taps the screen of his phone, glancing quickly at the time, then steps purposefully towards Emilia, into her space once more.
But Emilia is frozen, her eyes fixated on his phone, the image on his Home Screen still shining out from between his fingers. Two smiling faces, heads pressed together, gap-toothed grins and tousled baby hair.
‘You have children?’ she asks lightly, even though a wash of darkness is descending over her, like shutters coming down, blocking out the sun.
He frowns, but then follows her gaze down to his phone. ‘Oh … yes. George and Maisie.’
‘How old are they?’
‘They’re six and four now … Do you have children?’
Emilia shakes her head. ‘No.’
‘Would you like to?’
She forces her mouth into a smile, swallowing down a fresh batch of tears. These tears wouldn’t be helpful. ‘I’ve always wanted to, yes. Maybe one day.’
His eyes stay on her, his expression confused, as if he doesn’t know what to do, how to bring this conversation to an end and return to their previous, more enjoyable one. ‘Shall we go, then?’ He holds out one hand and points across the road with the other. ‘The taxi rank is this way.’
She nods. ‘Yeah … Actually, I’m going to quickly go to the toilet. Is that okay? Just before we grab a taxi.’
‘Okay … I’ll wait here?’
‘Meet you in two.’
Emilia flashes a smile at him and then turns back towards the entrance to the bar, walking as quickly as she can towards the doors. Her feet are aching, her heart racing. Her stomach churning with nausea.
He has children.
Two young lives who to some extent or another are dependent on him. Love him. He is the only father they will ever have. And he could be ripped from them in the most violent way in less than a day.
She heads straight for the toilets at the back of the bar, on the right. She bursts through the doors, pushing past a group of three women gathered around the mirrors, and slides into a stall, locking the door behind her.
She throws down the lid of the toilet and sits down, her hands raking through her hair, swallowing over and over again to force down the feeling that she is about to be sick at any moment.
He has children.
If he is taken, if he ends up dead at the hands of the Confession Room, his children will never be the same people they would have been. The people they would have turned into, grown up to be, will cease to exist. And it will be her fault.
She can’t … She can’t do this.
The nausea in her stomach is suddenly taken over by something else. Something far more powerful. Rage.
She will not do this. But what about her parents? What about Ciaran? How can she keep them safe?
She holds her breath, squeezing her eyes shut as her mind races. She’ll go straight to her parents’ house and tell them she wants to stay the night. And she’ll keep watch. She’ll call Ciaran. If she suspects anything, she’ll call the police.
Even if she follows their rules, she can never predict what they will do. So she can only think about what she will do.
And she will not do this.
She can’t.
Emilia lifts her head, her gaze boring into the back of the stall door. She exhales, her breath shaky, but her mind certain. There’s just one challenge left: she has to get out of here without Harris seeing her.
She opens the door and approaches the sink next to the three girls who are still there, laughing and gossiping, making pouty faces in the mirror. One glances her way, taking in her puffy red eyes, but she quickly returns to her friends. Emilia washes her hands quickly, wiping them on the back of her coat, and approaches the door. But she pauses, her hand poised just millimetres away from the handle. What if he’s waiting for her just the other side of the door? How will she get rid of him? Will she pretend that she feels sick? She’s changed her mind? What if he really is a monster like the man and woman claimed? Will he follow her? Has she put herself in an entirely new kind of danger?
‘Girls,’ she says, spinning around.
Their conversation comes to a sudden halt and they all turn to face her.
‘You okay, hon?’ the girl closest says, her heavily mascaraed eyes wide with anticipation.
‘Do any of you work at Laughton and Kemp?’
Another nods, the brunette. ‘We all do.’
‘Do you …’ Emilia hesitates, unsure which action would be riskier. Opening the door and hoping he isn’t there, or trusting these three girls. Trust the women, she says to herself. Think of all the times in the past that drunk strangers in the toilets of bars and nightclubs have become her firm one-night-only best friends. ‘Do you know Harris Keaton?’
The third girl rolls her eyes. ‘Everyone knows Harris Keaton. What’s the creep done this time?’
‘Is he being a pest again?’ the blonde asks, her mouth turning downwards into a scowl.
‘No, nothing too bad. It’s just … to get away from him I made the excuse of going to the toilet. I was going to sneak out the back way but I’m just worried that he might be waiting right outside. Could one of you –’
‘I’ll check,’ the brunette interrupts. ‘Don’t worry, darling. We’ve got you.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Emilia says, stepping away from the door, seeking sanctuary back towards the stalls.
The brunette opens the door abruptly and steps out. The door slowly closes behind her as she peers into the crowd then swings around, pushing her way back inside.
‘I can see him outside the front,’ she says to Emilia. ‘So yeah … if you go out the fire exit and sneak off down those back streets, he shouldn’t see you.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘I swear, they should have fired that arsehole months ago,’ the blonde says.
‘Has he done something bad?’ Emilia asks, unable to stop herself.
‘He’s one of those guys, you know … one of those weirdos who seem to think that women are the cause of all his problems. Our friend Georgia once went out with him, he seemed lovely at first, but after she said she wasn’t feeling it he said that she had led him on and that she owed him. Owed him! Can you believe it?’
‘Quite a few women have complained about him but nothing’s been done,’ the third girl says, rolling her eyes.
The brunette nods. ‘He won’t be happy when he realizes you’ve gone.’
The four of them fall into silence, all nodding slowly, understanding. ‘Go on, love,’ the blonde says. ‘Leave now before he comes inside.’
‘Thank you again,’ Emilia whispers. She smiles at them gratefully and pulls open the door, lowering her head to shield her face from the entrance as she turns quickly towards the right, towards the shining beacon of the fire exit.
She glances over her shoulder, her heart pounding as she checks to make sure he isn’t behind her, that the footsteps closing in are just in her imagination. She pushes down on the bar to the fire doors and they swing outwards, cold air rushing in, taking her breath away.
There is a road directly ahead of her which curves away to the left. She can go down there and then loop down towards the busy main road. Wait there for a taxi. Head straight home.
She steps out through the doors and on to the pavement, peering around the corner, to the side street where not so long ago she was standing with Harris Keaton, ready to follow their instructions. He isn’t there. Like the girl said, he must be waiting right outside the front doors still.
Just do it, she mutters to herself. Run.
Run.
She glances a final time over her shoulder and down the side street then pelts across the road, intently focused on the route that will take her into the distance. Her heels are pounding into the tarmac, her feet screaming, on fire, her breath loud and panicked.
She keeps running, not looking back until she is out of sight.
There is nobody behind her. Nobody following her.
How long will he wait? What blame will he apportion to himself? Any at all? No. The blame will be entirely on her shoulders. She’ll be the bitch who led him on outside a bar and then decided to abandon him.
A group of men and women walk towards her, heading towards the Dandy Fox. But they pay no attention to her breathlessness, her flustered face. They just manoeuvre around her, talking loudly.
Keep moving, Emilia, she says to herself.
She begins to walk, her feet moving rapidly beneath her, the lights of the main road appearing on the horizon. Relief rises up inside her, from her feet up towards her head –
A loud noise echoes out from inside her pocket. That jaunty ringtone.
Her phone.
No Caller ID.
She gasps, her legs moving faster and faster, until she is sprinting towards the lights. She looks back – are they following her? Chasing after her? Is that van going to appear out of nowhere and grab her, pulling her inside?
No. Nobody.
She is alone.
She reaches inside her bag to clutch the small plastic bag filled with white powder. She glances sideways, to the hedge lining the road, and throws it away, her heart pounding.
Her knees buckle beneath her and she crouches down, not caring that anyone walking past will be able to see her. Her head hangs low and she presses her palms into the rough ground.
The phone rings out again.
Emilia’s fingers scramble to press the button and swipe the command to turn it off. The screen turns black, the call extinguished.
Do they already know that she has gone – that she has refused to follow their rules?
Emilia sighs, her tear-strewn face stinging in the cold. It’s useless. She won’t have stopped them. They won’t move on to somebody else. They chose him. And they will take him.
Maybe for someone who bought into the preaching of the Confession Room, it could seem that Harris Keaton deserved to end up there. And maybe no matter what, that will be the ending to his story. But …
His children. Those children with their sticky smiles and innocence will not be without a father because of something she does. She can’t watch the news in the morning and know that he is there because she helped them.
But the harsh truth is everything that happens to him, and whoever ends up there with him, will still be her fault.
The innocent who stay silent are still guilty after all.