The Voices
The one sentence pitch for this story:
The one sentence pitch for this story:
A runner suspects a local homeless man of harbouring murderous thoughts
and decides to take matters into his own hands...
A runner suspects a local homeless man of harbouring murderous thoughts
and decides to take matters into his own hands...
I used to go jogging along the seafront. During the winter months I left early enough to see the sea still in darkness, and returned as the sun slowly crested over the pier. I liked the chill in the air, and would imagine myself at one with the ocean, breathing along with the swell.
I used to go jogging along the seafront. During the winter months I left early enough to see the sea still in darkness, and returned as the sun slowly crested over the pier. I liked the chill in the air, and would imagine myself at one with the ocean, breathing along with the swell.
On my route, often, I’d see a vagrant sleeping on one of the benches, buried in the dirty black chrysalis of his sleeping bag, surrounded by the detritus of his lair. He’d eye me suspiciously, mumbling to himself and gently rocking back and forth.
On my route, often, I’d see a vagrant sleeping on one of the benches, buried in the dirty black chrysalis of his sleeping bag, surrounded by the detritus of his lair. He’d eye me suspiciously, mumbling to himself and gently rocking back and forth.
His eyes were so dark they were almost black; his skin was the colour and texture of a blood orange.
His eyes were so dark they were almost black; his skin was the colour and texture of a blood orange.
I told someone at work about it.
I told someone at work about it.
“You know that homeless people often have mental health issues,” she said. “You should probably be careful.”
“You know that homeless people often have mental health issues,” she said. “You should probably be careful.”
And then slowly, as time passed, I began to wonder…
And then slowly, as time passed, I began to wonder…
At first, it was nothing – I grew anxious as I drew level with him, kept him fixed in my gaze as I passed, and remained alert until long after I’d left the seafront far behind. For a time, I considered changing my route, but decided against it – it was a public space, I paid my taxes, I wouldn’t be afraid.
At first, it was nothing – I grew anxious as I drew level with him, kept him fixed in my gaze as I passed, and remained alert until long after I’d left the seafront far behind. For a time, I considered changing my route, but decided against it – it was a public space, I paid my taxes, I wouldn’t be afraid.
But forewarned is forearmed, and so I took to research: websites, periodicals, newspapers – headlines that jumped out at me with something like serendipity. Schizophrenia, trauma, stress disorders; stories of crazed loners carrying out the orders of their voices: setting houses to blaze, stabbing horses or livestock… killing complete strangers?
But forewarned is forearmed, and so I took to research: websites, periodicals, newspapers – headlines that jumped out at me with something like serendipity. Schizophrenia, trauma, stress disorders; stories of crazed loners carrying out the orders of their voices: setting houses to blaze, stabbing horses or livestock… killing complete strangers?
I ran at dawn.
I ran at dawn.
The beach was deserted.
The beach was deserted.
He could do what he wanted and no-one would know.
He could do what he wanted and no-one would know.
And then one morning he wasn’t there. His things were scattered around like flotsam washed in from a storm, but the vagrant wasn’t to be seen. I almost panicked, and picked up my pace to a sprint.
And then one morning he wasn’t there. His things were scattered around like flotsam washed in from a storm, but the vagrant wasn’t to be seen. I almost panicked, and picked up my pace to a sprint.
When I’d passed the public toilets, I looked back in relief and that’s when I saw him: standing, staring at me, his hips at an angle like some haughty rebel – conceited almost. He took his hands from his pockets and I saw the glint of steel before he rubbed his chin as though reflecting on a missed opportunity.
When I’d passed the public toilets, I looked back in relief and that’s when I saw him: standing, staring at me, his hips at an angle like some haughty rebel – conceited almost. He took his hands from his pockets and I saw the glint of steel before he rubbed his chin as though reflecting on a missed opportunity.
Then his head shook like a dog – “No,” he seemed to say; and then again, shaking more violently: “No, no, no…” And then he looked out to sea and breathed deeply and reminded himself that there would always be tomorrow…
Then his head shook like a dog – “No,” he seemed to say; and then again, shaking more violently: “No, no, no…” And then he looked out to sea and breathed deeply and reminded himself that there would always be tomorrow…
I left the seafront so fast that day it was untrue; a bubble of fear driving me onward.
I left the seafront so fast that day it was untrue; a bubble of fear driving me onward.
That was a moment. I’d felt it. It was real.
That was a moment. I’d felt it. It was real.
I spent the entire evening on the internet, in chat rooms on Reddit and 4Chan and following searches and links: homelessness, violence, ex-servicemen and refugees still haunted by the horrors of war; mental health patients thrown back into society without the drugs they needed to keep them calm; abusers, parole breakers, drug addicts and dealers, knife crime and gangs; late night stabbings and inner city drive-bys; a police force stretched to breaking point, unable to stop the horrors that took place in the places where there was no-one to see.
I spent the entire evening on the internet, in chat rooms on Reddit and 4Chan and following searches and links: homelessness, violence, ex-servicemen and refugees still haunted by the horrors of war; mental health patients thrown back into society without the drugs they needed to keep them calm; abusers, parole breakers, drug addicts and dealers, knife crime and gangs; late night stabbings and inner city drive-bys; a police force stretched to breaking point, unable to stop the horrors that took place in the places where there was no-one to see.
I imagined these people, hunted by the voices: like bullies that taunted them from inside; voices that spoke from their pasts and drove them to hideous acts of violence. Haunted by the voices. They were being haunted by their voices.
I imagined these people, hunted by the voices: like bullies that taunted them from inside; voices that spoke from their pasts and drove them to hideous acts of violence. Haunted by the voices. They were being haunted by their voices.
He was driven by his voices…
He was driven by his voices…
How long could he hold them back?
How long could he hold them back?
I awoke that night in a cold sweat. Those voices he heard. What had they told him? What was he wrestling with?
I awoke that night in a cold sweat. Those voices he heard. What had they told him? What was he wrestling with?
What if they told him to kill me? What if he stepped out from the public toilets, some rusty blade in his hand, and drove it into me?
What if they told him to kill me? What if he stepped out from the public toilets, some rusty blade in his hand, and drove it into me?
I’d dreamt of his cold blade penetrating my gut, like a runner’s stitch that killed.
I’d dreamt of his cold blade penetrating my gut, like a runner’s stitch that killed.
I awoke with a memory of a pain so real that I winced.
I awoke with a memory of a pain so real that I winced.
The next morning, almost without thinking, I picked up the fruit knife I’d just used and weighed it in my hand. It wouldn’t hurt to have it. It wouldn’t hurt to be able to defend myself. It wouldn’t hurt to be ready.
The next morning, almost without thinking, I picked up the fruit knife I’d just used and weighed it in my hand. It wouldn’t hurt to have it. It wouldn’t hurt to be able to defend myself. It wouldn’t hurt to be ready.
In my mind I reached ahead to the moment in my run when I passed by his bench and I surprised him with my defence. We wrestled, while he screamed incoherent foreign words – the traumatic memories of some distant war that was nothing to do with me. I fought him, and pinned him down, and held the knife to his throat and I spoke words that were brave and defiant… I’d survive.
In my mind I reached ahead to the moment in my run when I passed by his bench and I surprised him with my defence. We wrestled, while he screamed incoherent foreign words – the traumatic memories of some distant war that was nothing to do with me. I fought him, and pinned him down, and held the knife to his throat and I spoke words that were brave and defiant… I’d survive.
It’s better to be safe, or so they say.
It’s better to be safe, or so they say.
That’s what I told the police anyway. Later that morning, as I sat in the back of their car, with his blood still on my hands.
That’s what I told the police anyway. Later that morning, as I sat in the back of their car, with his blood still on my hands.
"It was the voices," I said. "They made him do it. I was just defending myself."
"It was the voices," I said. "They made him do it. I was just defending myself."
Notes on the writing:
Notes on the writing:
Like a lot of stories, this came from the concept: I wanted to write about someone who thought other people were going mad, and in the end we realise that he's the mad one! Once I got thinking about it I decided I wanted to do it about a kind of prejudice as well - we assume that certain groups are out to get us, when that's often just scaremongering from the media.
Like a lot of stories, this came from the concept: I wanted to write about someone who thought other people were going mad, and in the end we realise that he's the mad one! Once I got thinking about it I decided I wanted to do it about a kind of prejudice as well - we assume that certain groups are out to get us, when that's often just scaremongering from the media.
So I had my idea: I had a jogger thinking someone homeless was out to get him, and in the end it turns out that it's the jogger who's the problem. We don't know anything about the homeless guy at all.
So I had my idea: I had a jogger thinking someone homeless was out to get him, and in the end it turns out that it's the jogger who's the problem. We don't know anything about the homeless guy at all.
To do this, I needed to create an unreliable narrator - someone who tells the story as if it's one story, but then it turns out they're wrong and we've been lied to.
To do this, I needed to create an unreliable narrator - someone who tells the story as if it's one story, but then it turns out they're wrong and we've been lied to.
Stories like this are often quite fun as you have to set certain things up, knowing that they could be misinterpreted. Like the scene at the toilet, where he looks back and sees a glint of metal and the homeless man shouts something and the runner assumes that he's angry that he didn't kill him when in fact it could have been anything.
Stories like this are often quite fun as you have to set certain things up, knowing that they could be misinterpreted. Like the scene at the toilet, where he looks back and sees a glint of metal and the homeless man shouts something and the runner assumes that he's angry that he didn't kill him when in fact it could have been anything.
In the end, in fact, I'm not even sure it is clear who's done what but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Remember that you don't have to explain everything in a short story, you just need to make the reader care.
In the end, in fact, I'm not even sure it is clear who's done what but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Remember that you don't have to explain everything in a short story, you just need to make the reader care.
There is a challenge with a story like this though as it requires you to create a character who will go on a journey - in this case, the character had to go from being someone we could relate to, and then turn into someone who was capable of murder. If you're going to try something like this in an exam you'll have to take the reader on a whole journey in under 45 minutes - which means writing something significantly shorter than I've done! It's completely possible, and I've read great stories like this from kids before, but it's not easy.
There is a challenge with a story like this though as it requires you to create a character who will go on a journey - in this case, the character had to go from being someone we could relate to, and then turn into someone who was capable of murder. If you're going to try something like this in an exam you'll have to take the reader on a whole journey in under 45 minutes - which means writing something significantly shorter than I've done! It's completely possible, and I've read great stories like this from kids before, but it's not easy.
Unreliable narrators are not for the faint hearted!
Unreliable narrators are not for the faint hearted!
This is another good story with an unreliable narrator... https://themolotovcocktail.com/about/archive-vols-1-3/vol-10/vol-10-issue-10/invasive-species/
This is another good story with an unreliable narrator... https://themolotovcocktail.com/about/archive-vols-1-3/vol-10/vol-10-issue-10/invasive-species/