Journey into Disaster by NOKBEW™

1.03. Police Station Number One

Inside the building of the Police Station One, everything seems tiny. As we entered the office, I hit my head on the top door frame: “Ouch, damn it!”

“Be careful,” warns Officer Papillio, but it's already too late. The collision was not violent, but rubbing the forehead is impossible because of the handcuffs on my back. I shake my head to cut the pain. She commands: “Sit down there, please.”

Fortunately, the policeman in plain clothes with the big gun left the office immediately. A young policeman removes the handcuffs. Now I rub the spot on my forehead. The wound on the back of the left hand bleeds a little, the right wrist is only red. Stupid handcuffs. The stout policewoman – she took countless photos in the hotel room – rummages through a half-empty first aid box, then drizzles a cotton beating with a dark tincture of iodine and hands it to me. She also speaks understandable English: “Press this on the wound. Something like that becomes infected easily. I'll look at this soon and take care of it.”

I growl: “No need.”

She examines my forehead. Casually and jokingly she remarks: “Well, everything seems okay with your head.” Then she takes my left hand without asking me. After examining the superficial wound, she says: “Just a small scratch, be careful anyway. I will put a plaster on it later.”

I just feel a little pain. Certainly because of adrenaline or shock symptoms. Probably both. My hands tremble slightly, and it is difficult to think clearly. Nevertheless, I read her white name on the black name tag on her uniform. I gasp with a dry throat: “Thank you very much, Mrs Tolisan.”

Her answer is a forced smile.

-★-

Suddenly, the office door opens. The cameraman and the reporter rush into the office unsolicited and immediately the microphone is under my nose. The camera light is on and dazzles me. The guy with the microphone throws me questions in English that are spoken way too fast. I only understand pieces: “Nationality? Hometown of the children? Why are you sleeping at the hotel? Age children?” I push the bad-smelling microphone aside. These outrageous guys are the last ones I need now. I protect myself and hold my hands in front of my face. The iodine-brown cotton beech claps on the floor. Blood and iodine run down on my arm and dramatize the injury considerably. The camera zooms it in and produces perfect TV images.

Papillio shouts: “It's enough!” She throws the media people out without further ado.

Seconds later, a loud discussion begins in the hallway in front of the office.

A young man's voice shouts indignantly: “Leave the children alone! No interviews! Let's go through!”

The woman, who probably knocked on the room door, shouts: “It's okay! Let them ask questions!”

The male voice complains loudly: “No, don't block our way! These are still children! Give way now, go away, disappear, you!”

Some children cry loudly.

I hear the guy with the microphone screaming: “Hey, stay away from the camera!”

The older woman shouts hysterically: “It's okay, okay!”

The policewoman rushes out of the office door and the excitement in the hallway ends immediately.

Now the five boys sit with me on worn plastic chairs that creak terribly at the slightest movement. The children are in a miserable condition. They look sleepy, have red eyes and disheveled hair. Aboy and Sam wear the shirts from the inside out. The normally healthy brown color on the faces of the boys appears ashen. Dan cries softly and leans against his big brother Jan. Dan's narrow shoulders trembling as he sobs. Jan puts his arm around Dan fraternally and comfortingly. Phil and Sam are apathetic and absent. It seems that they sleep with open, glassy eyes. Aboy sits bent forward. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands are on his round cheeks and his fingers touch his ears. Every now and then he makes bubbles with spit, bursts them and wipes away the spit on the concrete floor with the yellow Islander flip-flops. The children do not understand the situation and are visibly in shock.