Emilia was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment; Isabella to eight. The judge said that while she felt empathy for what both of them had been through, their lies directly led to three more people dying. That the reach of the Confession Room was extended because of their inaction. Isabella’s sentence was more severe because Emilia had eventually come forward. But her coming forward hadn’t been enough. Not to avoid prison completely. Not like she’d hoped. Emilia had thought that maybe once the sentencing was in Judge Watson’s hands they would be let off lightly. But that wouldn’t have pleased the public. That wouldn’t have satisfied their hunger.
And then that was it: just like that, it was over.
No more victims. No more names. No more posts.
The trial at a close.
The Confession Room silent.
Until now.
The End
I delete the last line, and release a sigh. I’ve finished.
Tears sting my eyes and I smile – an overwhelmed laugh bursting from me.
I’ve finally finished.
I roll my neck in a wide circle as I lift my hands off the keyboard, my bones creaking. My time in prison did my body no favours: I feel old now, more restricted, as though the two and a half years I spent inside a cage clipped my wings, and even though I have been set free – I’ve been free now for as long as I was imprisoned – I’ll never be the same. Not on the outside. Nor on the inside.
A loud thud clatters from somewhere behind me and I look round quickly. Did that come from inside the house?
Shaking my head, I return to the laptop. They can’t hurt me. Not any more.
I scroll upwards, staring at the thousands of words as they fly past, the story I have been telling myself finally fully transcribed. Hundreds of pages, covered in my scrawled handwriting, are piled up around my desk, the final page propped up beside my screen. I reach for it and hold it for a moment, the thin paper folding over itself between my fingers. So thin that it’s not even able to stand straight – but it’s all they would give me. ‘This is what we have,’ the guard told me. ‘Take it or leave it.’ I place the final page on top of the closest pile – the one lying just to my left on the floor beside my chair, and breathe out a heavy sigh.
I’d only been in prison a few months when I asked for that first scrap of paper. I thought that it might help me process everything that had happened if I told the story as if through the eyes of another person, an onlooker observing the events unfold. As soon as I was released and I settled into my new home, just over an hour away from my parents, I began to transcribe, reading the story as I went, allowing it to soak in, typing it up in snatches between my shifts at the closest village library, and trying to form some kind of new life after everything that has happened. At the final meeting with my probation officer before my licence came to an end she said that she was proud. And I suppose there is much to be proud of: while I have kept as much of my old life as I can – Jenny visits often and my parents come at least once a week, Mimi trotting beside them, unable to be separated from them after so long – I have built a new life. New friends, a new home in a new place. A new job. I have started over. And I have tried to let go.
I raise my arms high above my head and stretch, my spine clicking loudly, vertebra by vertebra. My hands drop down to hang by my sides, and I scan my desk for the TV remote. I turn in my chair, my eyes searching the room. There it is – on the small sofa, tucked into the corner of the only living space. They said it was a three seater but there’s barely room for one.
I cross the room and turn on the television, and am immediately greeted by the newsreader’s voice. She has been telling the same story on repeat since this morning, and all the other channels are the same.
‘The Confession Room – the forum that led to confessions of murder, the deaths of eight people – was deleted after the killings came to a halt. However, early this morning, a new website appeared, and a confession was posted, mimicking the confessions from the previous case. Police are investigating and this morning Detective Chief Inspector Wild, who led the investigation five years ago, gave the following statement.’
My eyes narrow, focusing like lasers as Wild’s face appears, anxiety swelling in my chest like it always does when I think of her. She’s Chief Inspector now – a promotion handed over to her like a reward after Isabella and I were convicted, even though the people who actually orchestrated the entire scheme were never caught by the police. We were enough, it seemed.
‘The entire country was consumed by the case five years ago and we are taking the new confession very seriously. Any person who chooses to post in this way – even if the post in question is a hoax – will be met with the full force of the law and we will do everything in our power to ensure these people face the justice that they deserve.’
I turn away from the television, my eyes flickering back to my second screen, where the new Confession Room is open, the new post highlighted as always in bold.
Anonymous 01
Have you missed us?
It’s been a long time, so here’s something to keep you occupied.
But this is different to last time.
No names. No location.
Just this confession:
Murder.
It’s beginning again.
Gravel crunches on the drive, shingle shifting rapidly. I stand up quickly, and rush to the side of the window where I can’t be seen. Nobody has said they’re coming over: my new friends aren’t close enough to simply drop in and only a very small circle from my old life even know where I am: my parents, Jenny, Isabella … that’s it.
I peer around the curtain – a rolling vehicle is coming to a stop. The door swings open, feet land on the drive with a heavy crunch, and a person appears. They turn towards the house and –
I inhale sharply, my stomach dropping.
It’s Ciaran.
Ciaran is at my house.
But why? And how? He shouldn’t know where I am.
At first he visited me in prison, and I looked forward to seeing his warm face, his comforting smile. He was the best part of every week. But with each month that passed, seeing him became less of a treat, and more of a torture. All it did was remind me of everything that we could have been if tragedy and horror hadn’t intervened. I can never be the Emilia that he loved again. So eventually I asked him to stop coming. I said that it would be best for both of us if we moved on. He continued for a while, but I didn’t meet him. And after a few weeks of sitting opposite an empty chair in the visitation hall, he finally stopped.
He disappears from view and I close my eyes, waiting for the sound I know will be coming at any moment. Five, four, three –
He knocks sharply, in his familiar rhythm, like he always did before.
Could I just stay here quietly, and pretend to be away? I could be out. But my car is in the drive. And going anywhere around here requires a car – the only place I’m able to walk is into the woods.
If I stay here, completely still, after a few minutes he will give up and return to his car, disappearing forever.
But what if he simply hangs around, knowing that I can’t have gone far? I need him to leave. And the only way to make him leave is to make it clear: he is not wanted here. I walk quickly towards the door, my hand reaching for the handle, but then I stop, my fingers trembling, my breathing heavy in my chest. I breathe in deeply, all the way to the bottom of my lungs. There is nothing to be afraid of. Even though it breaks my heart to have pushed him away, I have to do this. And maybe this way, he will finally let me go. It can be the end for both of us.
I grip the handle and turn, tugging the door towards me.
And just like that, after so long – he is there. Just the same as always. He has barely changed: his hair still dark blonde but now peppered with some grey, his warm amber eyes swimming with surprise.
‘Hi,’ he says quietly.
‘Wh … what are you doing here?’ I stammer.
He flinches slightly, and my heart drops as his expression changes. I didn’t mean to be so cold. But I don’t know how else to be when faced with him standing at my door.
‘I wanted to make sure that you’re okay after …’ He raises his hands. ‘Everything that’s happening.’
I shrug, my eyes dropping down to stare at my feet which are curling against the cold wind now blowing through the door. ‘I guess.’
‘Have you … have you seen the confession?’
‘Hasn’t everyone?’
He nods slowly, not saying anything. His face is furrowed into an expression I can’t read. I used to be able to decipher his feelings so well – they were always so clear to me. Our lack of closeness has rendered us strangers. But that was the point. He cannot be mine, and I cannot be his – not in the way we had hoped, not after everything we went through and everything I did. He deserves more. Better.
‘How did you know where to find me, Ciaran?’ I ask, staring at him once more. ‘You aren’t meant to know where I am.’
‘I know … I’m so sorry. I saw the confession this morning and I was terrified that you would be out here alone and watching it all unravel. I was worried.’
‘But who gave it to you?’ I cross my arms, stepping back slightly to shield myself with the door. ‘Was it Jenny?’
He doesn’t say anything but it is there on his face, in the lowering of his eyebrows, the subconscious rubbing of his jaw – I guess I can still read him after all.
‘She shouldn’t have done that. Nobody is meant to know –’
‘I know, and please don’t blame her. She only gave it to me because I was so worried and she knows – you must know – that I would never do anything that would put you in danger. So are you … are you okay?’
I don’t respond. I can’t. I just stare at his beautiful face, my eyes widening as the air between us shimmers with ghosts.
‘You know that if you need help, we can give it to –’
‘I don’t need help,’ I say, nodding once, assertively. ‘I’m fine … You really shouldn’t be here.’
He steps back, off the doorstep and on to the path, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have come.’
‘No,’ I whisper, my voice breaking, tears stinging my eyes. ‘You shouldn’t … I have to go. You have to go. Goodbye, Ciaran.’
I slam the door shut, the sound echoing up to the ceiling. Throwing my back against the rough wood, my heart heavy, I wait for almost two minutes, one hundred and twenty long seconds, as our relationship, everything it ever was and everything we ever wished it could be, clicks before my eyes like a film on a projector. The memories sepia-tinted. And there is no movement on the other side of the door. No shifting of gravel. He must be standing there, his mind replaying everything just like mine. I know what he had hoped … he had hoped for more than he ever should have. He should have known, he must know deep down, that he could never have me back again. Our relationship was destroyed along with so much else.
The Confession Room left behind many victims.
Not all of us dead.
Finally, he moves, his footsteps tapping against the brick of the porch before crunching across the drive. The car door slams. The engine growls. And then he drives away.
I dart across to the window and stare at the car as it trundles along the drive then takes the sharp left out on to the road, vanishing from view.
I flop down on to my chair, the seat swinging beneath me, spinning me slowly in a circle, my view of the room blurring with tears. I sniff abruptly, shaking my hands out in front of me. This emotion does me no good. None of this does me any good. Sitting here crying over what I have lost is futile. I must be grateful for what I have.
And I’m grateful for this house. Small, red brick and covered with ivy, a collapsing gate, hidden at the end of a long gravel drive, obscured by trees at the foot of a large wood. The closest village almost nine miles away. Miles away from London. Away from the world. Solitary. Secluded.
I stand, walking out of the living room and into the narrow corridor which leads to the kitchen. Peering in from the door, my eyes are drawn as always to the woods through the window, the trees dense and thick with foreboding.
Bang.
That same loud thud vibrates up through my feet and I turn my head, staring at the door to my left – a door under the stairs. A door that leads to another part of the house for which I am now truly grateful …
The basement.
I step through the door and flick on the light switch. A lone bulb dangling from the ceiling glares above me and I descend the stone stairs, my heart pounding. I reach the bottom step and wait. Listening.
Bang.
There it is again. That sound.
At the bottom of the stairs, there is a door straight ahead, bolted shut, and another to my right – also locked, this one with a key. I reach into my pocket and retrieve it, pushing it quickly into the lock. It clicks open and I press the door with my fingers, waiting as it swings open before quickly stepping inside. I lock it behind me. It’s funny – my fear of being locked in small rooms has vanished – my time in prison like severe exposure therapy, one that I could not avoid. Did it cure me, though? Or was it just more trauma on top of trauma until the brain could handle no more and simply blocked it out? Either way, the result has been the same.
I sit down at the tiny desk, my leg curled beneath me to cushion the metal chair, and I turn on the computer. This one is old, and bought specifically for one purpose. For the camera. It is a monitor, the image grainy and black and white. But it will do.
Finishing my story had led me to one clear conclusion: the ending was even more unfair than I had realized at the time. There was no justice. None at all.
So I just have to deliver it myself.
I lean in, my brow lowering as I focus in on the live feed.
The man is moving, his arm randomly spasming, lifting off the floor and slamming down again. But he remains unconscious, his eyes firmly shut.
It will be the smell that wakes him.
At first Joshua Reign was perfectly still, but now he is stirring. His nostrils are flaring. His reaction is fascinating to watch. Humans are all the same; all animals reacting in the same instinctive way to a stimulus. In this case: the realization that something is incredibly wrong.
And something is very wrong. He is not in his bedroom, as he should be, but instead in a room made up of four cement walls, a grey ceiling, no windows … and the overpowering smell of bleach.
He sits up and rocks forward. The room will be tossing violently back and forth, the after-effects of falling unconscious without warning. He clamps his hand over his mouth … That will be the nausea.
After a few minutes, his rapidly blinking eyes lift. He looks around, forcing himself to take in the strangeness of the situation.
Why am I here? How did I get here?
He brings his knees up towards his chest and –
There it is. The moment of terrifying recognition I’ve been waiting for. He stares down at his leg, his mouth dropping open as his eyes take in the shining steel cuff wrapped around his ankle, attached to a chain, tethering him to the wall.
‘Hello?’ he calls out, trying to keep the panic from his voice. ‘Hello?’
His face slowly falls as he waits for a response that won’t come. There is no worried cry or violent outburst coming from behind the locked door. No aggression. No rescue. He won’t even find comfort in the echo of his own voice. The room is too small for that. The walls and ceiling both too close.
There is nothing but silence.
He forces himself on to his knees and then groans as his body rights itself, chest puffing with the effort. He is shaking. Shaking with adrenalin and nerves and the confusion that is keeping him from screaming out, from crying for his mother, from calling for someone, anyone.
This is fear. This is the moment he understands how fear really feels.
He steps forward, one small step into the room, his eyes darting around as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. He frowns, turning slowly in a circle, tangling his legs in the chain.
He focuses first on the corner of the room to the right. There is another bolt fixed to the wall, for another person to be chained to. But it is empty. So instead he turns his attention to what is sitting innocuously in each of the room’s four corners.
Four boxes, painted black.
How long will it take him to brave opening one? Some people would launch themselves directly at the boxes, scrambling in their haste to crack them open, like overeager children at Christmas. Others would cower, shrinking away from the unknown.
I had anticipated that he would be the former. But by his reaction to the room, I’m guessing now that he might be the latter. Not so big and brave, after all.
His eyes shift away from the closest box and look up to where a stop-clock is hanging in the centre of the ceiling, its red digital figures frozen, ready to begin counting down.
00:60.
Sixty seconds.
He stares helplessly up, his thoughts written across his features – a story so easily read it is as if I know it by heart.
What will happen after sixty seconds?
And when will it begin?
I glance at the laptop discarded beside me. I took it from their house, used it to set up a new website, to post the new confession. To contact their friends explaining their absence.
I crane my neck to where Amanda Reign is lying on the floor just behind me. Soon I’ll need to pull on my black jumpsuit and cover my face, then take her into the room to join her husband. And it can’t be long before they’ll open the boxes, retrieving the photographs of all of their victims, both dead and alive.
And then it will begin.
Sirens wail somewhere in the distance, but I can’t tell if they are real or just wailing in my imagination. Maybe one day, flashes of blue will light up my home. Police will crash in through the front door and I’ll be placed in handcuffs once again, returned to the small cell and its years of confinement. And maybe it will be warranted. But it will be worth it.
The Reigns will get what they deserve. I am giving them what they believe in: their own unique brand of justice.
Welcome to the Confession Room.
My Confession Room.