Room 93 (FIRST DRAFT)

Present

I hold my breath as Elizabeth finishes Darren's story.
'What happened then?' I ask her, my heart thudding pathetically in my chest.
'Can't tell you yet.' Elizabeth tells me, grinning like a child on Christmas. Her smile takes me back to the image of Darren that I have drawn up in my mind. I can see his crushed body trapped within the two animated walls. The pain would have been excruciating. It would have been worse than both of the previous deaths put together. Everything about my life suddenly becomes precious. I think of my two wonderful sons back home. My wife, my house, my sons. Everything I have taken for granted in a few seconds have become the most amazing, wonderful and lucky things. I think Room 93 changes you, even if you haven't been there. It changed your view on the world. When I left to visit Elizabeth I was a tired, bored, aspirational young man who wanted nothing more than to get some money and pay off my debts. Now though, after I have heard about the room, everything seems different. The grey clouds are heaven and my baby boys crying has become an Angels harp.

Eric gets up from his chair and smiles at me solemnly. His rosy cheeks have hollowed and his smiling eyes have faltered. Everything good within him has been sucked out of him. He bends down and closes the scrapbook. Just as it closes I catch a glimpse of a shiny photograph that for no reason in particular calls out to me,
'What's that a photo of?' I ask Eric curiously,
'Which photo?' He freeze, his fingers stuck to the pages as if held by superglue.
'That one.' I say leaning forward. I press my finger into the page with the photo and swing the book open allowing the pages the dance in the open windows breeze.

The photo is a image of a a newspaper report. There are seven others on the page, each picture taken of a different newspaper. The first is taken from a big newspaper company situated in Yorkshire. A smiling fourteen year old boy looks up at me from the page. He is standing beside a young blonde woman who looks in her late thirties but is probably in her mid-forties. He looks pampered and happily surrounded by people who love and pamper him. The report below reads: Fourteen year old Darren Jackson, son of Rosemary and Oscar Jackson the multimillionaire TV show hosts, disappears in the early hours of the 14th of May. Suspected kidnapping but no ransom asked for. I remember hearing about Mr and Mrs Jackson although they are dead now. Mrs Jackson died the year after this was taken. Suicide they say, although my mother always used to say that the husband killed her.

I run my hand over the next article. As I stare at the dark haired and blue eyed girl I see non existent blood running down her face. I still see the hung girl from the CCTV footage even though it hadn't happened yet in this photo. I read the words numbly: Alexia Roberts, aged 13, disappears on the way to school. Officials are unsure of what has happened to her although kidnapping and murder are suspected. Alexia smiles grimly at me. She seems happy enough although something is troubling her from the creases that cannot be ironed out of her skin. Bags underline her eyes and make their brilliant blue colour bolder and harsher.

The next report reads as follows: Maggie Sheen - seven -and Laya Sheen - twelve - of Surrey run away in middle of night. The orphanage beg for their safe return as soon as possible. Anyone with any knowledge of their whereabouts is to speak to police in Surrey immediately. The report is small and runs down a small thin column in the already small local newspaper. I doubt if anyone had seen the two girls they would have alerted the police anyway. The girls picture is minuscule, you can barely see it. The girls are holding hands the youngest hair cut in a very short pixie cut. The older girl has her hair tied back in a pint tail, her arm defensively blocking the younger girl, Maggie, from sight.

I scan the articles about Jason, Astra, Eric and Elizabeth. Each one describes scenes of kidnapping, murder or rape. Eric, being only seven when he disappeared, had the worst story of them all. He was kidnapped from his room in the night, no sign of him. Blood covered his living room floor but all of it turned out to be his mothers who was brutally murdered and hidden in the boiling cupboard under the stairs. People suspect his father for the murder and kidnapping. The rest are rather similar to Alexia's. They are all short and include a small column with contacts to call if anyone sees them. Then, finally, my eyes fall upon Samantha's. Her face shines out of the page. In the photo she is holding hands with two identical small girls with black ringlets and huge green eyes. The article names them as Melanie and Frieda. On her other side there is a boy and a girl. The report says that the boy is eight and is called Edmund and the girl is seven and called Susan. The girl looks extremely similar to Samantha. She has the same wavy blonde-brown hair and greyish blue eyes. Her face is heart shaped and her nose is slightly Roman, just like Samantha. The boy looks very similar to the twins, his hair is messy and his smile is charming. He grips his sister, Susan's, hand protectively. His eyes are greyish-blue like Samantha and Susan's but instead of having a heart shaped face like Samantha and Susan he as an oval shape, similar to that of the twins, Melanie and Frieda. I stare at them title of the article: Five Children at Large. It is a title that I certainly wasn't expecting. The rest of the article reports: Children (from left to right) Melanie Dawson, aged five, Frieda Dawson, aged five, Samantha Dawson, aged thirteen, Susan Dawson, aged seven, and Edmund, aged eight, were spotted last night fleeing their family home. It has long since been known that the eldest child, Samantha, dislikes her family, but when their mother and fathers bullet ridden bodies were found buried in back garden late last night the children, lead by Samantha, fled the city. It has recently been confirmed the gun buried with them is covered with Samantha's finger prints. More work is being done on the case but Samantha Dawson and her siblings remain suspects of murder. If these children are spotted you are to immediately contact your nearest police force and to help arrest the five possible criminals. I look up at Elizabeth in horror. The Samantha Elizabeth has been speaking of was no criminal. She was kind and caring. She couldn't have been a criminal who murdered her own mother.

Eric moves closer to me and leans over my shoulder, sighing when he sees the article I am so confused about.
'Confusing, isn't it. The events according to the newspaper don't add up. The girl we met in Room 93 was no killer. She was kind, protective and calm unlike a notorious murderer.' He leans even closer and reads some of the other articles. I watch him as he scans through his own article, his own history. 'I never remembered my mother. Never. You'd think that I would remember someone who is that important quickly, but no. I remember my father though. It wasn't too long after Darren's death when I began getting dreams like Elizabeth. They was all dreams of him though, my father. He was a wonderful dad, my favourite person. He loved me and my mother, I can't believe he would have killed her.' He tells me sternly, fist clenched in annoyance at the newspaper.

Delilah smiles soberly. Her eyes look glassy and send an unwelcome shiver down the core of my spin. Her red hair is sprawled out in a way it wasn't before. She swallows quickly and breaks eye contact with me, her glassy eyes once more falling onto the wooden floor. Her smile falters and she looks down blankly trapped in a day dream.

Elizabeth stands up. She stretches her arms gently and prises the book from my grasp. I look down and notice the leg she is slightly limping on is her left one. Did the ordeal with the walls leave her permanently injured?
'Your leg.' I lean forward and look at it closely,
'Oh, that. The doctors couldn't do much when we got out. It was already infected you see. They did their best but it was enough. My leg still hurts sometimes and I take painkillers everyday to dilute the pain but it doesn't always last.' She turns away from me and hides the book away in the draw where it lives.

Delilah remains seated as Elizabeth and Eric usher me into a well lit, white kitchen with matt stone counter top. I feel the dull surface beneath my fingers as I gently feel the counter. It is cold and the surface feels almost rough. The contrast between shiny white kitchen units, black oven and stoney countertop makes the room feel larger and modern. Elizabeth seats herself at a granite table her fingers caressing its surface carefully. I take a seat opposite her as Eric bustles around the kitchen on a wild search for the coffee beans. He eventually finds them and quickly concocts a batch of coffee. His hands shake as he pours the coffee into our three assigned mugs and carries them over. Once all the coffee is safely on the table Eric turns to me.
'What is it you want Mr. Newman?' He asks me. I stammer for a few seconds before answering his sudden question.
'I am here for a story Mr. Reed.' I throw back at him. He flinches at my tone as I say Mr. Reed.
'There are plenty of stories worth your time Mr. Newman. Journalists can make a fortune from any old lie. So tell me, why this story?' He retorts with obvious disdain for me and all journalists in general.
'Because this one is the truth. The truth should be voiced, shouldn't it? Or should the truth stay silent Mr. Reed?' I raise my eye brows and clear my throat. I make a move for my coffee and sip at it as the sensation of burning smothers the back of my throat. Eric sighs and fidgets in his seat. Elizabeth looks at him cooly as if questioning his motives for asking the question.
'If it's a story you want then you have obviously come to the right place.' Elizabeth tells me kindly, helping Eric's angry words to wash over me like they never even existed in the first place. Elizabeth takes one look at Eric before beginning her story once more.