‘Okay, Emilia: in you go. You’ll be held here until a charging decision is made.’
Emilia lifts her head, blinking into the bright white light. Brennan gestures at her but she is so exhausted after the hours spent in interview, it takes her a moment to recognize what he is asking her to do. Her breath catches in her throat as the world stops spinning and what is in front of her falls into focus.
A cell. Six feet by six feet. White painted concrete walls, yellowing with age. A camera hanging from one corner. A thick metal door.
‘I …’ She turns to look at Brennan and he frowns at her, his eyes darting to the custody officer standing on Emilia’s other side, keys in hand. ‘I don’t have to go in there, do I?’
Brennan raises his shoulders, his face torn. ‘Given what she’s been through, surely –’
‘We have to keep them separate,’ the custody officer says. ‘So she has to go into a cell – Wild’s orders.’
‘Maybe I should speak to the sergeant –’
‘You can, but she’s busy booking someone else in.’ The custody officer places a hand on Emilia’s shoulder. ‘If you go in for now and we can chat to the sergeant. Go on – you’ll be fine. You’ve been in lots of these before.’
Emilia nods, unable to react, unable to argue back. All her senses are prioritizing one thing: the small cell just feet away from her. She shuffles forward, removing her shoes. Stepping inside, she moves quickly to the bed and sits down, swinging around to face the door. She brings her knees up to her chest and hugs them tightly, her chin resting on top. Breathing in shakily, she expels the air through her teeth in a low whistle.
The custody officer tugs on the door and it slams loudly. The lock clicks into place.
Emilia whimpers. The walls are so close. Her eyes are drawn to the camera, its light glowing red. She flinches as the camera in the Confession Room runs through her mind unbidden, its hateful eye taking in everything that she did, her shame recorded in perpetuity. Heat washes over her, sweat pooling in her chest under her top, the fabric sticking to her skin. She presses her face down into her knees, her eyes squeezing shut.
Her hands fly up to her head, her fists pressing into her temples.
She just needs to calm down. This isn’t the Confession Room. She isn’t trapped. She’s with the police. At the station. She is safe –
A loud bang sounds from outside.
A gun.
No – it wasn’t a gun. It was just a door closing. She is safe –
No. No – she isn’t safe. She needs to get out! They’re going to hurt her –
She throws herself off the bed, falling to her hands and knees before staggering forward, launching herself at the door with all her might, fists hammering against the unforgiving metal.
‘Let me out!’ she screams.
The walls close in, inching towards her.
‘Please! Let me out! You can’t just keep me in here! Please!’
Welcome to the Confession Room.
‘LET ME OUT!’
Black spots flash across her vision, her head spinning, her legs unsteady and weak. And suddenly the floor is rushing up to meet her, an instant stab of pain and then darkness.
‘Emilia,’ a voice says, breaking through the heavy fog. ‘Emilia, can you sit up, please? Can you hear me?’
She tries to open her eyes but they feel heavy, weighted down, so heavy it is as though she will never be able to open them again. Her face scrunches in on itself, eyebrows lowering, nose lifting, mouth twitching. A ray of blinding light rushes in through a small gap in her eyelashes and she winces. But her eyes blink rapidly, finally opening to stare up at the greying ceiling, three faces hovering above her.
Brennan, the custody officer and a new face are there. Emilia narrows her eyes, trying to focus on the third person. Her face shifts into focus.
‘Jenny.’ Emilia’s eyes flood with tears – her best friend is here. But the rush of relief is tinged with shame. What will she think of her now?
‘Jesus, Emi,’ she huffs, her face wrinkled with concern. ‘You scared the living shit out of me.’ She pushes her hand underneath Emilia’s shoulders. ‘Come on, sit up.’
Emilia tenses, allowing some of her weight to be taken by Jenny, and by the other custody officer whose face is wrinkled with concern. Probably worried that she’ll be blamed.
‘You feeling okay?’ Brennan asks as Emilia sits up, her back aching.
She nods. ‘I just feel a bit shaken. Did I hit my head?’
‘No,’ the custody officer says quickly. ‘Your arm flew out … your shoulder took the brunt of it.’
Emilia nods, turning back to Jenny. ‘I can’t be locked in that room. Please.’
‘We’re not going to lock you in, Emilia.’ She stares sideways at the officer and then glances out into the custody suite, bustling with people and energy. ‘And anyone who thinks I’m saying that because you’re my friend,’ she says in a loud voice, her tone pointed, ‘can think again. That’s come from Holden.’
‘I was just following orders,’ the officer says, in a low, defeated whisper.
‘I know,’ Jenny says. ‘You can go back to whatever you were doing before.’
The officer nods and glances quickly at Emilia before rushing away, staring at her feet.
‘You can go too,’ Jenny says to Brennan. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. He nods at her, then raises a hand to Emilia, his face a bewildered mix of sympathy and annoyance. Jenny watches him leave, her hand still pressing into Emilia’s back, her touch firm and strong.
‘Ciaran’s been messaging me non-stop,’ she whispers. ‘He’s so worried about you.’
‘I hate myself for doing this to him. To you as well … I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t say another word,’ Jenny says.
‘Sorry. I don’t want you to get in trouble –’
‘I didn’t mean it like that, you lemon,’ she says, smiling sadly. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about. I don’t know what’s gone on but I do know that you’re one of the best people there is.’
Emilia sighs. She isn’t so sure about that. She isn’t sure of anything. She doesn’t even know who she is any more.
Jenny stands, pulling at the material of her trousers which has gathered around her knees. She holds out her hand and Emilia grabs it, groaning quietly as she is pulled to her feet.
‘When did you last sleep?’
‘Wednesday night. Last night I stayed up …’
‘So maybe you should try to get some rest. We’ll wake you if they call you for more interviews. And we won’t shut the door, I promise. But I’ll have to get one of the lads to sit outside. I know you’re not going to do anything stupid, but –’
‘No, I know. You’re doing your job. Thanks, Jenny.’
Emilia turns back into the cell, the flat, thin mattress atop a shaky metal frame not really inspiring a desire to sleep. But maybe once she lies down the exhaustion will quickly overcome her. And she’ll face the open door.
Jenny smiles at her, warm like afternoon sunlight, and then walks quickly out of the room. ‘Grant,’ her booming voice calls out, as clear as if she was right beside her, ‘can you come and do an offender watch at cell eight?’
Emilia takes three slow steps towards the bed. It’s so low it only reaches halfway up her shins. She folds herself on to it, wincing as her weight drops on to her shoulder. Then she turns over quickly, away from the wall which looks too familiar to the walls of the Confession Room, the dirtying white paint causing small bubbles of anxiety to pop in her chest. But as she turns on to her right, she sees the door wide open, and a police officer – Grant – sitting on a chair just a few feet further away, a cup of tea clutched between his fingers.
He catches her looking and raises his mug towards her. ‘Want one?’
She shakes her head, her hair rustling against the plastic of the mattress. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Let me know if you do.’
‘Thanks,’ she whispers, her voice breaking at this small act of kindness.
She wants to close her eyes, she wants to sleep, but for now fear fixes her eyelids in place, her mind constantly searching for confirmation of where she is, who is around her, that the door is still open. Until even her terrified senses are not enough to withstand the pressure of a body wracked with fatigue, and her eyes, heavy and aching, finally close.
But still she dreams, the terrors arriving quickly.
She dreams of the Confession Room.
The mug is warm between her hands, her fingers clutching at the fading china.
‘It’s perfect,’ Emilia says, taking another small sip. ‘Thank you.’
‘If I can do anything, it’s make a banging cup of tea,’ Grant says, lowering his chin to watch her from beneath his eyebrows.
She smiles, the warmth of the emotion reaching down into her chest. She is finally feeling a bit more normal. Although normal is relative. All that it means at this point in time is that her body is not utterly consumed with terror, her nervous system reacting to every sound, every strange smell, every sensation registering as alien and unsafe. It means that she has had a small amount of sleep, interrupted by being called for three further interviews through the evening and into the night, the same questions asked of her in different ways, pieces of information they have gathered from elsewhere being drip-fed to her, sprung on her at the opportune moment. It means that with each tick of the clock, she is getting ever closer to her twenty-four hours being over, and a decision being made. Will they let her go? Will she be charged? She closes her eyes, either outcome feeling overwhelmingly too large. Either option not changing the fact that life will never be the same: one way or the other everything will be different. She will be different. Until the man and the woman are found, she will live in constant fear. And everybody – from people she has always known to strangers in the street – will think of her differently. The old Emilia is gone.
Movement at the top of the corridor catches Emilia’s eye and she tenses, anticipating danger, both real and imagined.
It’s Jenny. And there, just behind her, still wearing her heels, is Wild.
‘Emilia,’ Wild says. ‘We need you to come with us.’
A strange feeling of acceptance washes over Emilia – it’s time. Now she will know. She sets her mug of tea down on the floor with a clink then, groaning, she stands, lifting her hand to grip her shoulder which is still aching, the skin now black and blue with deep bruises.
She follows them out of the cell, smiling at Grant as they walk past him, wondering what he is feeling at this very moment. Does he look at her and feel conflicted about what and who she is? Victim or liar? Survivor or murderer?
They reach the custody desk and Emilia braces herself to finally find out her fate as Jenny breaks away, taking her place behind it. But Wild does not stop – instead she veers away, taking the corridor to the right, and turns abruptly into the interview room. And there is someone waiting for them, his notebook in hand. The Detective Chief Inspector – Henry.
He looks as tired as Emilia, his face drawn, the weight of the past twenty-four hours sitting heavily astride his shoulders. ‘Good morning, Emilia.’
She glances awkwardly at Wild who is staring at her, a frown fixed to her face. ‘Good morning, sir,’ Emilia replies. She holds her hand out towards the chair she has been sitting in for every interview, the seat hard and unyielding. ‘Should I –’
‘Yes, sit, please.’
But Henry and Wild do not follow; they stay standing, Henry shifting from foot to foot, Wild continuing her furrowed blank stare. Emilia waits, her heart racing. What are they going to tell her? Why does this all feel so strange? She has been through this process so many times, with so many people, the outcomes always the same. Charge or release. Remand or bail. So why does this feel so odd?
‘Emilia, we’re going to explain the decision that has been made,’ Henry says, ‘but we’ve brought you into this room because we need to speak to you. There’s some things that have happened while you’ve been at this station that you need to be made aware of.’
‘Okay …’ Emilia sighs. ‘Sir, I’m really sorry, but you standing there above me is making me very uncomfortable –’
‘Of course,’ he says quickly. ‘Wild – let’s sit.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she says.
They both sit opposite Emilia. She presses her lips together, the dry skin cracking, the tangy taste of iron on the tip of her tongue. Whatever has happened, it’s something big.
‘Why don’t you explain what’s happening with her arrest, Wild?’ Henry says. ‘And then I can …’ His voice fades away, his sentence incomplete, hanging in the air unfinished.
‘Of course,’ Wild says. She shuffles to the edge of her seat, her hands pressed together, pointing towards Emilia. ‘Emilia, you’re going to be released on conditional bail pending further enquiries.’
‘Bail?’ She glances back and forth between them. ‘I’m not being charged?’
‘No,’ Wild says. ‘This case, all of the moving pieces … we need more time to consider the evidence. And for the CPS to consider what is in the public interest.’
Emilia’s arms turn cold, her skin covered in goosebumps. The public interest. Of course … For any prosecution to continue, a case must pass two tests: there must be enough evidence, and it must be in the public interest. But what is that balance in a case like this? Should the people who made it out of the Room be punished? Or should they be forgiven? Where does that leave the dead, if the people who pulled the trigger go free?
‘Okay …’ Emilia looks away from Wild, turning to focus on Henry with wide, pleading eyes. ‘So what’s the other thing?’
He sighs, rubbing his forehead, the skin wrinkling and stretching. ‘Emilia, since those videos were released, the videos of each victim being killed, there has been a significant reaction. As you’ll probably be able to understand, a lot of people are … upset.’
‘Angry,’ Wild says.
Henry throws a withering glance in her direction. Wild lowers her gaze, sucking in her bottom lip.
‘Yes, people are upset and … and angry,’ Henry continues. ‘There’s already been a protest this morning. With people on both sides. But some people – and we will be coming down on them – some people have acted out.’
Emilia frowns. ‘Acted out? What does that mean?’
‘Well, in your case … Ryan Kirkland’s mother has found your address.’
The colour drains from Emilia’s face, her eyes blinking rapidly. ‘What has she done?’
‘She and a group of others have encamped themselves outside. They’ve graffitied on the door, on the entrance … even on the pavement outside. She’s demanding that you pay for the murder of her son.’
Emilia’s mouth trembles, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She grips her hands together, her nails digging into her palm, pressing harder and harder to inflict some pain, anything to serve as a distraction from the information that is cascading towards her.
‘So, we can’t bail you to your address.’ Henry leans forward, his fingers stretching towards her across the table. ‘We’ll bail you to your parents’ house and we’ll make sure there’s police presence nearby. And the same goes for Isabella. They found her address too.’
Emilia freezes. ‘Isabella?’
‘Yes. She is going to be bailed to a family member. Her mum and her siblings are going to stay there too. They couldn’t remain in their home.’
‘What about the others?’
Wild coughs. ‘Sorry,’ she says, staring at the floor. Her eyes are watering. A chill runs down Emilia’s spine. Is Wild crying?
‘What about the others?’ she asks again, each word dropping like stones into water, each ripple growing bigger than the last.
‘Rosie Johnson, the last survivor, the woman who was taken directly after you, is missing. We’ve been unable to locate her. We are assuming that as soon as the videos went live she made a run for it.’
Henry swallows loudly, dragging his eyes to Emilia, her mouth open, her gaze full of questions. She doesn’t say anything: part of her isn’t sure what more to ask; the other part full of fear.
‘Joseph Henley is dead.’ He shakes his head slowly, his hands clasped to his chest, over his heart. ‘He committed suicide.’
Emilia lets out a shaky breath, her mind falling completely still, completely quiet. ‘Wh-when?’ she stammers.
‘Just after his family saw the video,’ Wild says. ‘He was at home with them. He ran upstairs with a knife and locked himself in.’
‘No …’ Emilia cries, her face crumpling with pain. ‘Please, no –’
‘Emilia,’ Henry says, moving off his chair and around the table to kneel in front of her, his hand gripping hers. ‘I didn’t want to tell you this now. It’s too much.’
‘No, it isn’t enough! It’s no more than I deserve –’
‘Don’t –’
‘It’s my fault! It’s my fault he’s gone! They all stayed quiet and I just had to come to you! I just had to tell the truth, do what I thought was right! I knew what the consequences would be and I still did it!’
Isabella’s voice echoes in her ear, the memory springing up from deep inside her. Joseph Henley killed his own brother! You’re going to ask him to risk the truth coming out?
Emilia lets her head fall into her hands, her sobs ringing out of the interview room and into the custody suite.
What has she done? What should she have done? How can this be real?
Isabella warned her of what could happen. And now it has come to pass. She wanted to save people – to make sure that nobody else’s life would be taken. But now Joseph Henley is dead. Rosie Johnson is missing. She didn’t even manage to save Harris Keaton and the poor woman who was taken with him, who would have been set free – now she is dead too.
And her and Isabella? Their futures are balanced in the hands of a baying crowd. Some calling for mercy. Others for blood.