Room 93 (FIRST DRAFT)

Present

After our encounter with the little girl I had swept the small leather bound diary into my arms and pulled Elizabeth into my car. She was so stunned that she hadn't even realised I had dragged her into the car and that we were driving. It took a minute of explaining for her to understand what happened, even then she seemed confused. After an hour of driving round the city pointlessly she carried on her story from where we left off. We swapped seats at the nearest petrol station and she began driving us to some distant place.

Now Elizabeth has the diary in her lap, cradling the memories within it. It is the only proof, except Eric, that what happened in the room was real. It's the only thing that can prove she isn't insane. It may bring bad memories but it is also a relic. A item from her last that reminds her of who she is and how she came to be. Most people have something like that although I can only assume none of the other peoples things are as graphic and traumatic.

She looks over at me, agitated as she finishes talking. I see her sigh as she remembers that day. I begin wondering how vividly she remembers the room and all its gruesome horrors. It must be quite vividly if the mere thought of it sends shivers and darkness through her. I'm beginning to wonder how much of a good idea this was. At the time it had seemed clever and profiting but the more I think about it the more and more I am regretting talking to Miss. Moore. But I must carry on listening, something about her face as she speaks makes me think of layers. Like a tiered cake she is covering the truth with half truths and lies, the way you coat the bottom tier with other tiers and thick icing.

'The girl. Who is she?' I ask Elizabeth. She refuses to look at me. After years of being a reporter I have learnt the look she is giving me very well. It's the look of a person who doesn't want to speak. It's one of the faces I am extremely used to.
'That is none of your business Mr. Newman.' She pulls a poker face and stares out the car window at the streaming countryside.

Hills and valleys dip and rise beside us and car and people slip by as if they don't exist. I see a flock of sheep grazing in a field oblivious to the tension and importance of the conversation passing them by. A water pallet of greens and yellows and blues and whites flow past, painting the rising sun delicate colours. I hadn't noticed the passage of time in our rushed escape and long journeys but night has come and gone and the new morning is arising. My wife and daughter will be worried sick but they'll have to wait. This is more important.

'What about Eric?' I change the topic and attempt to ease the conversation to a quicker pace.
'What about him?' She doesn't take her eyes of the road - which is certainly a good thing - but she acknowledges me with a new sort of interest.
'What is he doing now? Where is he?' I tell her, praying that she can answer my questions for once.
'He's fine. He isn't married, like me, and has no children. He lives in the north. In fact I am taking you there right now.' She smiles and injects some false enthusiasm into her posture. If it weren't for her dull poker face I would think she is genuinely happy to be visiting Eric but the poker face suggests she is hiding her fright. Elizabeth hides a lot of thing from me.
'Why?' I ask. It is all well and good visiting the only other survivor of the room but it doesn't really help me.
'He knows things. He has seen things I haven't seen. He also discovered a lot more after we parted ways at the age of about 14. He moved back north to where we had been found when we escaped the room and I fled south, trying to escape its influence. He has discovered things I wouldn't have. There is someone else I want you to meet too. A young woman that lives a minute away from where we are right now. We are taking her up to see Eric.' Elizabeth's points out the window to a huge hill we are about to ascend. That must be where the woman lives, at the top of the hill.

Elizabeth eventually pulls my car up into a small pebbly driveway. The house that follows the drive is a small cottage. A pillar of smoke rises from a small stack chimney and the door has an old fashioned knocker made of brass, in the shape of a lion. The door itself is wooden and fairly dark. A stained glass window is the centre piece of the door and rests just above the knocker. The house is small in comparison to Elizabeth's house but about the same size as my own home. It looks a lot more welcoming than Elizabeth's 'home' but I am learning not to judge by my first impressions.

My feet grind against the sea of pebbles are I clamber out the car and join Elizabeth on the pale brown door mat. I take the ring in the lions mouth and bang it against the door. The knocks echo and bounce inside the house and nothing stirs. I knock once more but no one replies. We wait for a few seconds before turning round and heading to the car. It is stupid to give up so quickly but maybe the woman doesn't want to be bothered by us. I am just about to open my passenger seat door when a young woman with striking red hair peeps through the door way and grins at me.

Her bright red hair and piercing eyes strike my in the chest and I stare at her trousers and t-shirt. She looks in her mid-twenties and can't be much younger than me. She has a hoodie strung onto her back and a pair of head phone clinging to the top of her head.

Elizabeth notices the woman staying in the door way and closes the a car doors heavily so it almost slams. She trudges to the door, with me in tow. The woman allows us to pass through the door and leads us into a modern open plan kitchen, dining and living room. A small flat screen TV rests before a sofa with a roaring fire crackling beside it. The dining table has two chairs but could seat four if the woman wanted it to. The kitchen has a marble counter top and a huge sink and cooker. The whole house seems immaculate, so much in fact that I am beginning to wonder whether she actually lives here or just looks at the room without touching anything.

'Take a seat, Liz.' She gestures to the sofa and raises an eyebrow at me,
'This is Harry Newman. Harry meet Delilah, Delilah meet Harry.' Elizabeth introduces the red hair woman as Delilah. The name doesn't suit her, it doesn't sound right.
'Nice to meet you Harry.' She holds her hand out for me to shake. I grip her hand tightly as I shake her hand. Her small hand is cold and stiff and nothing like what I imagined. She looks like a warm person not a cold one.
'Nice to meet you too, Delilah.' I release her hand swiftly and clench my fist trying to circulate the blood faster and warm me up.
'May I make some tea?' Elizabeth asks and Delilah nods her off. I watch Elizabeth walk away and leave me with the cold woman. Hopefully her hand doesn't reflect her personality.

'What do you do for a living then?' She asks me, her voice singing with interest although I have my suspicions that it is feigned interest.
'I'm a journalist. We are dojo g a story on Elizabeth, that's why I'm here.' I smile at Delilah and she smiles back,
'I'm a designer. I work part time for a major company in London.' She tells me. I wouldn't pin her down as a designer, she looks more like a musician or an artist but she is full of surprises after all.

Elizabeth stumbles back into the room with three cups of tea and some biscuits on a tray. She sets the tray down on the coffee table and sits between Delilah and me on the sofa. I lean forward and grab a biscuit and a mug of steaming tea, glad for the distraction. Something unsettles me about Delilah.
'Nice to see you two getting on.' Elizabeth grins, 'While we are here and enjoying this tea I'm going to tell you some more of the story but you mustn't interrupt.' She nods at me and Delilah. I wonder how many times Delilah has heard Elizabeths story, if ever. We both nod and Elizabeth snuggles down into the sofa, setting her tea and biscuit down on the coffee table with Delilah's untouched drink. 'This is where it all properly started,' she sighs and then she begins speaking.