The Empathy Files. The Angel of Empathy (1)
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By Philip Sidney
- 7946 reads
Ange was perched between a gargoyle and a pigeon biding time. Time was a slippery thing and one had to leap into the slipstream of a moment with perfect intuition. Ange loved that effortless flow when all of the elements gave up resistance and allowed her to make the perfect dive. There had, of course, been plenty of miss-timings. One cannot become skilled without practice. Ange gave an imperceptible shudder in recollection of those difficult landings. Not necessarily physically painful, but embarrassing and often leading to complications.
Ange glanced at the huge clock-face ahead. There was plenty of time. The air was grey and flat, nothing shimmered; it did not invite her to fall.
The pigeon was watching Ange with its right eye, the other was on a cheese sandwich, still in its plastic wrapper on the pavement. It had been there for precisely 3 minutes. A woman in clacky heels and a red coat had leaned over a bundle of fabrics and quite deliberately placed it there. In the pigeon’s experience, a shaky human hand would soon pick it up and peel it from its indigestible coverings; at this point she would make her dive to the pavement to take advantage of any goodwill that might be on offer. Failing this theft was a good second resort.
The pigeon was used to other birds, the odd floating piece of litter, and the gargoyle up here, but this visitor was both unexpected and intriguing. There was nothing to suggest danger, in fact the visitor was giving every indication that it knew the pigeon, had known her since the egg and beyond. A red-rimmed eye met the deep gaze of understanding and for a brief but delightful moment, all of her discomfort, the gnawing pain of hunger, the crawling skin of infestation, the disorientation of disease, was alleviated.
Ange acknowledged the pigeon with her cool-water stare, for it was not every creature that could see her. This pigeon had unique sensitivities, if only she knew.
The gargoyle leered into the distance. Ange rested a hand on its rough head. The carving had been fine, but years of weathering and chemical damage had worn away the detail, leaving it knobbly and ill-defined. Ange felt past the cold of the present to the heat of a centuries old summer’s day. Beneath a dusting of salt and the fresh droppings of a passing gull, it had stood, new and ancient, as a promising slab for the craftsman’s chisel. Well, in this case, an enthusiastic apprentice. This slab would become his first triumph. The work which would herald young Bobbo as a great talent in the making. Sadly his rise was brief, and his hundred foot fall from a spire rapid. Still, a little of his joy in the moment of creation throbbed in the stone.
There was a subtle alteration in the air. The muffled k-thunk of an expensive car door closing cut through the drifting shrill of traffic and humanity. Self-important leather soles tapped ostentatiously on the pavement below.
The air shimmered with streaks of a sickly green. It was time. The pigeon blinked as Ange stood, heels on the leaden edge of the guttering. Growing taller, gathering heft as she stretched, sinewy and powerful, with a slight arch of her back, Ange performed a perfect forward dive toward the ground.
Reginald Pilkington Smyth was a very busy man. Fortunately he had a rather wonderful personal assistant who ensured that his life ran like a well-oiled machine. Oilier than his glossy coiffure, more oiled than his massaged, fragrant skin, although not quite as oily has his plummy voice, which positively dripped from his thin lips.
There would another two hours until he was scheduled to lunch and already he had swum 20 lengths of his admittedly rather small indoor pool, made a very important decision from the comfort of his chauffeured custom-built Jaguar, spoken to all five of his children from the same Jag, via the rather nifty live video conference system one can now apparently carry at all times. The world in your pocket! Far be it for him to embrace the new and tawdry world of social media, but he was grateful to his young assistant for this initiation into the convenient communication techniques of the young. It allowed him to be the doting father at a distance, a preferable situation for all involved. The satisfying day of a busy man was only just getting started; he was preparing to make a rather special political manoeuvre and was very pleased with the killer speech his personal assistant had had written for him.
RP, as his chums had called him at Eton and the name had stuck, was old school. He modelled his behaviour on the greats from classical Rome. He was a realist; logical, not cruel. It was an unfortunate fact that if there is to be wealth there must also be poverty. Given that certainty, he saw little point in giving too much attention to the poor. There were people who were paid to do that and his time was more than stretched in the necessary acquisition of wealth. There was a symmetry to the world, equilibrium must be sustained. It hardly mattered who the rich or the poor were, but the existence of both was essential to keep the books balanced, and the books were everything. Given this fact he had further reasoned that he and his kind were better suited to wealth, they had the knack of creating it and should, therefore, keep it.
This rather comforting thought was interrupted by an aberration. Here, on the very doorstep of this great seat of law, order and all that was good in the world, was an intruder. A truly filthy man, draped in a greasy blanket of indeterminable colour, was hindering his progress. RP’s stomach lurched. If security had overlooked this piece of human wreckage, what other weaknesses might there be in the system?
RP averted his eyes. He was practised in the art of ignoring what was in front of him, his mind was on higher things after all, and it was always best to glide through these unfortunate situations. He would avoid an actual encounter at all costs.
A voice rose from the huddled blanket. A grimy hand was waving a piece of brown cardboard with something scrawled on it, he caught the word ‘help’ and averted his eyes once more. But he was wrong-footed. His shoe slipped on something both hard and soft. It crunched and slid. He was falling. He was falling onto the filthy man. And at that thought, before he fell into a sickly green haze of unconsciousness, he heard a desperate voice call out,
‘No! Not me sarnie.’
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Comments
Marvellous! (Quite literally
Marvellous! (Quite literally). Loving the idea, the execution, and the particularly that heartfelt wail at the end. Next part please!
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I like how you set the scene
I like how you set the scene : "Time was a slippery thing and one had to leap into the slipstream of a moment with perfect intuition" which is somehow full of light and cool and exciting
I like the pigeon too : "The pigeon was watching Ange with its right eye, the other was on a cheese sandwich,"
And about Bobbo and how the stone was old and new and all the details of time passing in the gargoyle
And the pigeon was special because it could see her
And what the "bundle of fabrics" was that the pigeon had seen, explained at the end. It's all woven together so cleverly. I enjoyed reading very much and am very glad you are writing again
ps I don't know if you are pernicketty about spelling mistakes (I like when people say about mine) you have
"It allowed him to be the dotting father"
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Pretty piece, intriguing
Pretty piece, intriguing concept, gorgeous, tight writing 'air shimmered with streaks of sickly green'. You introduced RP very well too. Lovely diction throughout. Top work, look forward to the next part.
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how the mighty fall - not far
how the mighty fall - not far or fast enough, but it's a start. More angles needed.
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Brilliant from start to
Brilliant from start to finish. The pigeon and Ange section is magical. Please hurry up with the second part!
Did you mean Eton?
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I really enjoyed reading this
I really enjoyed reading this because off the brilliant descriptive prose.it also was making me think on different levels clearly the literate short story as it stands then is almost like a bit of george orwell inspired making me think socio politico views about the rich and poor. I maybe have different views but this is not the place to talk about this. I think the story is very english in its poetical merits. Like I said a bit of george orwell I kind of see here. Although my views are just mine and be out of sync but phillip this short story is really good. The ending gave me a hearty laugh. No not my sarnie. Brilliant. I wonder if this is going to be part of a longer piece of work. I will certainley reading if it is. I also really like how you put the time it being written in when you explain early about communicating via social media. I really like this. Well deserved to be on the front page.
Keep writing. I hope my post made a bit of sense sometimes I can confuse myself.
Brilliant writing.
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This is our Story of the Week
This is our Story of the Week - Congratulations! It's also our Facebook and Twitter Pick of the Day (again) as it didn't make it onto social media the first time and it really deserves to.
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apologies for it not making
apologies for it not making it onto social media first time around Phil - honestly, you can't get the staff nowadays
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Had a wondrful time reading
Had a wondrful time reading this, PS. Sorry. but had to look up sarnie. Was not familiar. Read it again and liked it even more.
Rich xx
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I have fallen into this and
I have fallen into this and it is the most wonderful entrapment.
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