25 Years of Hell

For twenty-five years, I traded the truth for a quiet life. I argued that silence brought peace to the village, but not knowing was still hurting the family. 

Anniversaries have a way of digging up graves. A televised report, a memorial fund, a charity function, social media- you can’t do anything now without someone wanting to film it and get their fifteen minutes of fame. 

Back then, it was easy for the town to let the story harden around the accused. He was already known to the local police—just another drifter living out of his car, a petty thief, a loner who kept in the shadows. He had no one respectable standing in his corner, and the local rag made him sound guilty long before a jury ever heard his name. When they finally cuffed him, everyone seemed relieved. The collective sigh was almost loud enough to drown out the doubt. But not for me. I still remember that night as if it were yesterday. 

Looking back now, on the day of the conviction, the village looked different. The old, grey dread had been scrubbed away. The pub had opened its beer gardens to the afternoon sun, the heavy smell of charred barbecue smoke hanging in the humid air, and children were laughing and playing on the green. It was jarring how easily a place could forget the horror. But the boy was still missing. 

That night, I sat alone at the kitchen table as I had done for fifteen years since my mother passed. It was long after midnight, with the old newspaper cuttings spread out in front of me, reading the same lines until the words blurred.  

I do not sleep much. I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep. I made tea I didn’t drink as the sun came up behind the curtains; I decided today was today. By six, I had put the newspaper cuttings into an envelope that I had kept folded inside a book for years. The last photo was the front page of the Sun. A full spread showing the young boy playing in his garden, in cream shorts and a red vest top, his blond hair shining in the midday sunshine. The byline was “What happened to Aled”. I rubbed my hand down the photo; my heart started to beat faster. Slamming my hand down on the table took me out of the dark place.   

For a while I stood in the hallway with my coat on, one hand on the latch, waiting for the flat to settle around me. I nearly took the coat off twice. I told myself I should phone first, or write it down properly, or wait until I had spoken to a solicitor. Those were sensible thoughts, maybe. They were also the same kind of thoughts that had kept me quiet for twenty-five years. It took me three hours to get out of the house. 

I did not go straight to the police station. I walked past it, carried on to the corner shop, and bought a paper for reasons I still cannot explain. As I stood beneath the awning, rain began to fall. Would this be the last rain felt on my skin? I thought. 

Inside, at the front desk it smelled of bleach and damp coats. The support officer behind the glass looked up and asked what I needed. For a second, I could not make the words come. I slid the envelope with all the news clippings in under the gap instead, then pulled it back because I realised how foolish that looked. 

“I need to report something,” I said. My voice sounded flat and far away. “It’s about a murder from years ago. The wrong man was blamed.” 

She did not gasp or accuse me of anything. The support officer asked my name, my date of birth, and whether anyone was in immediate danger. When I said no, she told me to take a seat. That almost undid me, the ordinariness of it. I had imagined a moment of judgement. Instead, I sat beneath a faded notice about reporting anti-social behaviour and waited while someone found the right person to speak to me. 

After twenty minutes, a young plain-clothes officer came out and led me into a small room. He did not switch on the recorder straight away. First, he asked my name, and we shook hands; he looked annoyed that he had been taken away from something he considered more important. 

Then he asked if I wanted water, whether I needed medical help, and if there was anything else he should know. 

I said, “No. I need to tell you something that happened twenty-five years ago.” 

His brows furrowed. He looked at me; you could see his mind ticking over. “25 years ago, you say.” He took out his phone. “Excuse me, Mr Davies, while I make this call.” He stood up and walked out of the room. Leaving me there to ponder. 

A few minutes later, he returned with a woman a little older than him, perhaps in her fifties. They both sat down. Her Welsh accent was soft, but there was nothing soft in the way she watched me. She placed a folder on the table, interlinked her fingers on top of it, and said, “Mr Davies, before you tell us anything, I need you to understand that we will be recording this conversation.” 

“I understand” was my reply. My mouth had gone dry. The younger officer set the recorder between us and checked the time. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint buzz of the strip light above my head. 

“This is an initial interview with Bryn Davies and Detective Constable Jones and Detective Inspector Gwen Smyth. It is eleven fifteen am on the 25th of June 2025 

When the DI asked me to begin, I looked down at the envelope on the table and finally said the words I had spent half my life avoiding. 

“I killed a man by the name of Harry Jenkins 25 years ago because of something he did and...,” 

“Can I stop you there?” The DI shot in. They put their heads close together, not wanting me to hear what they were saying. Then DC Jones said. “Mr Davies. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?” 

I nodded, “Yes, that’s why I have come here today.” 

“Right, shall we start from the beginning?” 

I took a deep breath. “Twenty-five years ago, Harry Jenkins killed that young lad.” I pulled the old newspaper clipping from the envelope and spread it on the table. “This one”, I pointed to the front page of the Sun.  

“OK, I don’t think I have heard of a missing person named Harry Jenkins, and I’ve been on the Island for thirty years. Also, a man was charged with the abduction, murder and disposal of young Aled.”  

DC Jones picked up the news clippings, leafed through them, and began taking notes. 

“What can you tell me about Harry Jenkins and what you saw?” 

“He worked at the fair, the one that came here every summer; back in the day, we had a few drinks and smoked a little weed, so each year the fair came, we would meet up and down a few.” 

“So. What did Mr Jenkins do too, or do with Aled?” 

I shuffled in my seat; I was sure they did something to the chairs to make them more uncomfortable. “The young lad was by himself; he came round to the dodgems where we were drinking and having a spliff and asked if he could have a go. Harry told him to sod off; he was too small. The kid picked up a stone and threw it at Harry; I just laughed it off, but Harry was pissed. He picked up a brick and launched it at the kid’s head. It hit him smack bang on his right ear; the kid went down.”   

“What happened then?” I was asked. 

“I nearly choked on my beer; Harry just laughed. I said What the fuck, Harry, why did you do that?” 

“What was his reply?” Still scribbling in his notepad.  

“He said the little shit deserved it and then carried on drinking his beer.” 

“Did you go and check on Aled?” 

“Yes. I went over and knelt beside him to check that he was all right. He was crying, but he managed to stand up and ran off, shouting something in Welsh as he went.” 

“What happened after that?” 

“We went back to our weed and beer. The next day, I saw on the news that a boy from the village had gone missing; he looked like the lad from last night, and I thought Harry must have done something to him.” 

“Ok, let's jump forward. How and when did you kill Harry?” 

“It was the final night before the caravans moved on. Harry had invited me to a gathering hidden among the old ruins. Because he’d introduced me around the travelling community over the last few weeks, I was welcomed without question. The air felt heavy: you know just before a storm.” I coughed, “It had been three weeks since the young boy had gone missing. The odd blue lights still patrolled the village; a prayer group that had taken over the green was dwindling, and a handful of reporters still hovered nearby, scavenging headlines. I was sitting there drinking with Harry. I murmured, keeping my voice entirely nonchalant. Remember that kid who threw the stone at you? I asked. 

“Yeah” he replied, “Won't be throwing any more stones from where he is.  What did you do to him, I asked. He lowered his drink; with his head, he nodded towards the well, dropped him down there. The little shit came back and smeared dog shit over my car door handle; I couldn’t let him get away with that, could I?”   

The DI and DC looked at each other. The DC ran out “Detective Constable Jones has just left the room” the DI said for the tape. “Ok, so now what happened to Harry?” 

“I think I need a solicitor.”  

“Come on, Bryn, I can call you Bryn?” 

“Yeah, it’s my name.” 

“Well, Bryn, you’ve come this far; why not finish, and then we’ll get you that solicitor and a cup of coffee- what do you say?” 

“Ok, I could do with a coffee.” 

“So, Harry had told you that he had dropped young Aled down the well...,” 

“After he smeared dog shit over his car doors” 

“Yes, ok, after that, what happened then?”  

“He had one of those new flip phones that you could take pictures. He opened it up and showed me a short video of the lad being dropped down the well; you could hear him scream, then you could see the metal grate being pulled back over. It made me sick.”  

DI Smyth did not interrupt. She sat very still, one hand resting beside the recorder; her eyes fixed. 

“I told him I was going to the police. He laughed at me. Said no one would believe a word I said because I was a drunken bum, because I smoked weed with him, and because I was nobody. Then he took out a knife and told me if I opened my mouth, he would say I helped him.” 

“Then what?” 

“He stood up and prodded me in the chest; I shoved him back. He came at me again, laughing, waving that phone in my face like it was a trophy. I grabbed it, and we struggled. I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t even think. I remember the edge of the old wall behind him and the sound he made when he went over. None of the other fair people heard anything; they were all too drunk to notice” 

“Did he fall into the well?” DI Smyth asked. 

“No. There was a drop from the embattlement, down into the old quarry cutting. He hit the rocks below.” 

The room seemed to shrink around me. I could hear my own breathing coming too fast. 

“I climbed down after him. He was dead. I knew he was dead; well, with half his face missing, I didn’t think he would be getting up soon. The phone was still in his hand. I picked it up. I don’t know why. Panic, I suppose. Then I heard the tide splashing up against the wall of the quarry. I dragged his body to the edge and kicked it over.” 

DC Jones hurried back into the room, pale and breathless. He leaned in close to DI Smyth and whispered something I could not make out. 

DI Smyth turned back to me. For the first time since she had entered the interview room, her expression shifted. 

“Mr Davies,” she said carefully, “officers have found the remains of a child.” 

I closed my eyes. 

“But we only have your word on the events of that night.” 

I took the old flip phone out of my pocket and passed it over. “I think you’ll need a charger, but it’s all there.” 

She passed the phone to the DC and asked him to sort it out. He walked out of the room after dropping the phone into an evidence bag. 

The interview ended; I was moved to a cell and given a sandwich and a lukewarm coffee. Three hours later, I was back in interview room 2. DI Smyth waved a sheet of A4. “Regarding Mr Jenkins. Well,” she paused. “I think you may have done the world a service.  

 My interest was piqued. 

We did a PNC check on Mr Jenkins; he is- sorry, he was on our most wanted list; he had a string of convictions, with crimes against minors, drugs, dog baiting, and organising illegal fights within the travelling community; the list goes on.” 

“Was his body never found?” I asked. 

“No, nothing, Jonesy.” I picked up the fact that she was sitting relaxed and calling her Detective Constable by a nickname. “Did a check with the RNLI. The coastguard. Nothing. Probably eaten by the fishes and crabs a long time ago.” 

The DC came back into the room with another sheet of A4. The DI read it whilst rubbing her chin, “Well, it looks like we have a situation here, Bryn.” Still, the relaxed approach. “The phone evidence shows Jenkins dropping Aled down the well and replacing the grate; then we have no knowledge of him for the last 25 years.”  

I sat up straight in my chair the best I could. 

“We could prosecute you for withholding information, or for aiding and abetting after the fact,” DI Smyth said. “We could argue and charge you with manslaughter over Harry Jenkins, but we only have your word and no body. But right now, Bryn, what we have are the remains of a child who can finally be returned to his family, and evidence that proves the wrong man had been incarcerated for twenty-five years.” 

“And what happens to me?” I asked. 

“I think you have served your sentence, and now that Harry Jenkins is gone, you should consider how many children may have been spared. I have made my recommendation to the Crown Prosecution Service. And I think that you will be sleeping in your own bed tonight.” 

Three weeks later, a funeral was held for Aled Jones.  The whole village turned out; even Bryn was standing in the shadows silently saying a prayer for Aled. 

At the end of a press conference, Mrs Jones said, “Hopefully this is the end of 25 years of hell.