Friday, 26 April 2013

Translator

Story written from "A translator doesn't want to translate what she's just been told". It's not the one I wrote in Rm 125- that one didn't make sense so I did it again. 


Elle was about to take the short cut to work down the alley way when it happened. She saw everything with her own two eyes. The tall dark haired man put the gun to the woman's head and pulled the trigger. Bits of brain and blood splattered everywhere. Before the man could see her she ran back the other way and took the long route to the police station. When she finally got there after what felt like an age of walking, a few police cars were parked round the entrance, a few still had sirens blurring. She made her way through reception, said "Hi" to Sally the receptionist and headed straight for her office.
"Hey, Elle!"
She turned around and saw her boss walking towards her looking very stressed though it was only 9:00 in the morning.
"Hi. Do you want something? I've got a load of filing to do."
"Well we've just brought in some French guy, we kind of need you to take this case too if that's ok? Ms Super Translator!" He strained a smile.
Elle sighed, "Ok, fine. When do you need me?"
"Excellent!" An actual smile this time. Her boss lead her through numerous corridors before reaching the interrogation room. It was the smallest room in the building consisting of a wobbly table surrounded by four wooden chairs. On the table sat a tape recorder, and that was all. It was a bleak room which sent shivers down her spine, the most dangerous criminals were interrogated in this room. She sat down on the chair furthest from the door on the right and ran over French vocabulary in her head. It had been a while since she had translated, 6 years to be exact, and her French was getting a bit rusty. She had once been one of the best translators in Europe, jumping from police station to police station translating statements from some of the most infamous French criminals. That was until she got sucked into Surrey Police Station working for her brother. They were depressing times, and it was about to get a lot worse.
Her brother had returned with another officer but what was shocking was who the criminal was. The man sitting down across the table from Elle was no other than the man she had seen shooting that woman exactly an hour ago. She had been so flustered that morning she had totally forgotten to mention what she had witnessed on the back alley. But Elle decided to wait it out, now wasn't the time or the place. She switched on the tape recorder and spoke clearly into the microphone, "Date 12-11-2013. Case Number: 1576. Suspect: Mr Clément Chabert. Officers: Miss Elle Pierce. Mr Eric Proctor." She turned to Eric, a rather plumb man with whispers of greying hair on his head and face, "Proceed".
"Mr Chabert, do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
The Frenchman glared at the officers and said, "Ce n'était pas ma fault."
Elle was silent. She knew that he had said it wasn't his fault but she couldn't bring herself to repeat in English. She had seen with her very own two eyes what he had done and she knew perfectly well that it was his fault. Both men were staring at her, waiting for a translation. Beads of sweat were forming on her forehead and her throat was becoming surprisingly dry.
She cleared her throat before saying, "He said he is guilty."

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