David W. Robinson's Blog: Always Writing - Voices – An Excerpt

A Very British Blog Tour Voices 2 on the Drawing Board

Voices – An Excerpt

After surviving a bomb attack, college lecturer Chris Deacon is struck mute and suffering hallucinations in the shape of a tiny dwarf and soldier. Reading the local newspaper, he learns that a fellow survivor, Jenny Morton suffers the same problems and hallucinations, the perpetrator, Brian Richmond claims to have heard voices from god telling him to commit the crime, and finally, another survivor, Steven Jessop, has committed suicide.

***

If Steven’s suicide alarmed and then depressed me, the reactionary editorial, from what was traditionally a centre left, small town, tolerant newspaper, pandered to public outrage and made me want to retch.

Yet another life has been lost to the carnage of the Refectory. Brian Richmond has confessed and there is no doubt about his confession. His plea, that the state of his mind was disturbed at the time, cuts no ice. His mind was not so disturbed that he could not wire up and set the timer for his evil weapon. And let us be sure about it. This bomb was not meant to strike a blow against the establishment in the shape of the college. It was planted in such a place at such a time to kill and injure as many innocent people as possible.

The Chronicle says enough is enough. It is time the British people were treated to real justice. The death penalty should be brought back for crimes like the Refectory. Let Brian Richmond hang for his actions.

After Jan read the report and editorial, her features grim on the front page, disapproving on page 6, she put the paper to one side, and asked, “Have you had any hallucinations like this little man with a large head?”

I shook my head. “I told you once before. Only dreams of Jenny,” I lied on the Nokia.

“Chris,” she pressed, “we have been married long enough for me to know when you’re not telling me everything, and we never have secrets. I saw you four at the college reception. I assumed you were comparing notes on the attack,” she went on as I tried to wave her into silence, “but there was more to it than that. What is it?”

“You’re reading too much into that conversation,” I wrote, “and you’re making things worse. Don’t you think I feel bad enough having read the paper?”

She took my hand and I snatched it free, mouthing, “Don’t do that.” Taking up the Nokia again, I typed, “I don’t need you holding my hand all the time.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m trying to be supportive.”

“It’s not supportive; it’s mothering,” I grumbled on screen. “I am not a child and I don’t want to be treated like one.”

We had also been married long enough to let her know it was time to back off.

I ducked under my headphones, listening to Kraftwerk’s Autobahn, but I could not lose myself in the music.

Brian’s orders from God, my muteness, Jenny’s inability to speak, Colonel Gun, Egghead, and now Steven’s suicide. It was all linked. But no matter how much I thought about it, no matter how hard I tried to make sense of it, I could find only one common thread: insanity. And it was staring me in the face.