As the angle widens, the huge expanse of a room is exposed. The room is dimly lit; the huge glass windows, grey with dust, forbidding any outside light. The brickwork, caked in dirt and grime from years of toil within the room, appears black.

It reminds me of a scene from Sin City - the vivid red blood on Reuben’s face and the gold belt buckle glinting in the small amount of light emanating from the strip lights overhead the only colours discernible amid the dull background. As I take in the scene, my heart thumps in my chest and my breathing speeds up. The room is reminiscent of the one I had my encounter with my attacker in; the shadowy corners and the threat of death bring back terrible memories.

Reuben’s voice brings me back to the present with a jolt. As he continues his monologue, I gaze around the cinema at the faces illuminated by the screen. Most are staring at the screen, expressionless, confused and appalled at what they are watching. Some have physically turned their bodies away, unable to watch the unfolding of the film. A minority are staring up at the projector’s booth, shouting for the projectionist to put a stop to this.

My attention is brought firmly back to the screen at the sound of a voice from behind the camera. There is no-one else on screen so I assume that the voice belongs to whoever is controlling the camera, the man in charge of this heinous filth. I curse myself that I didn’t hear what the man said, because from the look on Reuben’s face, it means that things could be about to escalate. He pleads with the invisible man. He grovels. He swears on his life that he hasn’t committed whatever crime has been levelled against him.

Tom gets up from his seat and whispers that he will be back soon, before slipping past the rest of the people in our row and disappearing down the faintly lit steps and out of the double doors.

I notice Ed a few rows in front, in a seat at the end of the line. I can see his body trembling and he looks like he’s about to be sick. I’m now certain that the video is not a fake, as Ed is clearly distressed. I feel so sorry for him, having to watch his friend be treated like this.

On screen, the camera zooms out again. Reuben’s feet appear, standing on an upturned plastic crate, the type pubs use to transport and store bottled beer. The end of the rope is now visible and is attached to a set of railings above him, hanging with a little slack.

Suddenly, there is a cry of anger and Reuben’s pleas are cut short as the crate he is standing on is kicked away, with only a boot visible. No other part of the perpetrator’s body enters the screen. The slack in the rope tightens and Reuben is suspended in mid-air, his feet swaying just inches from the ground, from safety.