The Man of Many Voices

The biting boom of the man’s voice that brought me here is still resonating from side to side
excruciatingly inside my head. “You do not have to say anything.” I don’t have anything to say. I can’t
even murmur why I was thrown in this room with goose-bumped arms that couldn’t stop shaking,
never mind why the man with the booming voice hurled my arms behind my back and wrapped
those heavy handcuffs that made that excruciating screech around my wrists. He was the man who
brought me to this room; the room with the mirrors, where my perplexed mentality currently is at
its peak. I would usually associate these types of rooms with criminals, not a 17 year old who has
never committed a crime in his life!

The room is clearly a place where culpable men have sat before me. With the stained crimson
carpet, the stench of spilled coffee and the dripping condensation that makes the room appear
humid, yet I feel like I’m in Antarctic water, except my palms and forehead are soaking in sweltering
sweat due to the scorching heat of the shaky ceiling light. All this combined is creating a false sense
of isolation, powerlessness and for some strange reason, guiltiness for me. However, I’m not stupid.
I can tell it’s a tool. In fact, I know that behind my reflection there are pairs of prying eyes glued
against the glass choking for me to utter the answers to their questions. But I have none for them.
I’ve already made the wise decision to take the oddly intellectual advice of that stupid bastard with
the infuriating booming voice who clearly got the wrong man to say nothing.

As I attempt to bring my mind as close to composure as I can, the door that is locking me away
from the freedom I deserve opens with a swift twist of the handle and a concise controlled shove. In
walks a man who at first glance looks like he knows he knows everything about everything. He
seems proud to be wearing an oversized tweed coat that makes him look like an aspirant Sherlock
Holmes however, actually assists him in looking even more thick than he is. The way he looks down
on me with his surprisingly charming green eyes for a dull, smug face is like he has just seen
excrement someone’s dog had laid on his doorstep. I snigger to myself because he believes that he is
going to be able to get some kind of confession out of me. But he is wrong because under no
circumstances am I ever going to come clean to anything.

He lobs his files and a small packet of tissues onto the table from across the room possibly hoping
to add some necessary intimidation to his underwhelming demeanour. I hear the clinking of his keys.
My fists begin to clench. Although I knew the file would have my name on it, sinfulness rumbles in
my gut that I’m under arrest when it is pushed beneath my eyes. Below my name I see the name
‘Detective Alan Brown.’ I glance up from the page and catch Brown fixing me with a deceiving gaze
and asks me the question of “Do you think you’re a good person, Ben?”

I don’t think I am a good person. I’m a great person. I’m so great that I actually volunteer at the
local home for the elderly. Without hesitation, I reply to his stupid question which he should already
know the answer to with, “Yes, Alan. Yes I do.”

The boom rattles brutally in my temple more than ever. The throbbing ache is increasingly getting
stronger. Shit, I shouldn’t have spoken. He sees me in pain. Disturbingly, he starts laughing. I clench
my head trying to not get stressed. But his laugh that would hurt a deaf man’s ears sounds again. I’m
almost falling off my chair; I’m that close to the edge of it, suspiciously stressed of why he’s laughing.

Gregor Milne
 Alan explains to me that a filthy hound went out to the park last night with evil intentions on his
mind. He stripped an elderly war veteran named William Robertson of the medals that he took
home after fighting in the Falklands War. William tried to defend himself but foolish culprit gouged a
knife viciously into his leg and ran with the medals in hand. He was alone, trembling and cold in the
park to gash out almost all the blood in his body. He wanted his wife die by his side. He spent his
time in the darkness attempting to scream for help but no one heard him. When the sun came on
the next morning he was found, dead.

I suffer a severe sting in my stomach knowing that someone would do such a thing. I’m so
disgusted that my eyes become dried out and eye lids begin twitching. I can hardly return the stare
that Brown is giving me. However, I still have absolutely no clue why I’m being told this irrelevant
information. I know not one person with the name William Robertson. I know no one that old apart
from my gran and I was in bed at eight last night anyway.

“Do you have anything to do with this crime, Ben?”

I shake my head with mild assertiveness but as I do the anticipation to find out the rationale of my
arrest that is away to murder me is killed. Alan begins to list off the invented reasons that we’ve
concocted as to why they’ve brought me to this repulsive place.

“CCTV 200 metres away from the murder captured you walking towards the park 15 minutes
before the crime happened...”

That wasn’t me. I don’t understand. Last night is a blur. I just probably needed to walk. I felt sick. I
needed fresh...

“...we found your finger prints all over the cadaver…”

But I was wearing gloves? The night was cold. They’re not mine!

“…and there’s blood on your forehead.”

Astonished, I look at my head in the mirror. It’s drenched in damp blood. I’ve only noticed this now.
I’m so preoccupied that I don’t realise that Alan has abandoned me. I try to resist stress but it is
extremely difficult being locked in a room with an accidental injury on your head. But in this
moment, God must’ve noticed my suffering and rewarded me with a packet of tissues for all the
good I do. I start making my head immaculate.

Unexpectedly, Alan ruptures back into the room with his laughter erupting. His body hunched,
almost unable to speak or walk, “You do realise that we can test that tissue to distinguish whose
blood it is. Before we examine, would you like to tell us why William Robertson’s innocent blood is
on your head?!”

Suddenly, I feel burdened with a heap of weight on the back of my head. My head collapses on the
table. I feel a swelling in my throat. My eyes fill with water so much that it’s agonizing not to cry.
That demonic chuckle sounds once again; I can’t bear to keep it in anymore. I squeeze my eyelids
together, take a deep breath and try to glue my broken mess together. However, the devil that is
Alan Brown’s laugh and the bastard biting boom scream in my cranium forcing me to open my eyes,

Gregor Milne
flood my face with tears and quiver with guilt. My heart is pounding. I can’t breathe. I need to just
confess that I...

Unexpectedly, a beautiful, sweet, amazing woman intelligently swings her hands around Alan’s neck
and screams, “Alan! Room 4. Now!” She unmistakeably explains to me they’re not allowed to hold
me for longer than 12 hours so I’m released.

As I sprint from that horrible, horrible place, everything slows down. I feel a sizzle in my brain. The
roar of the man’s voice is merely an echo now soaring away into the coldness. I feel a heavenly
experience of liberation, as if I’m hovering above the tower of guilt which once mounted me. I
reflect with myself that I now have my deserved freedom. There is a blissful silence in my head.
Well… almost. I just wish that frail, weak scream of the man who carried those medals that kept on
clinking off one another would end, forever.

1357 words

Gregor Milne