Shadows Smile, Time Doesn't
A Short Story concept - The extended version will follow in further weeks
It is easy to make assumptions when viewing a person, any person, from a distance. You do not see the person precisely, more a version of that person on that particular day. A tattered hat, tight jeans and Chelsea boots. A frilled skirt, tight vest with high uggs. An old tweed jacket leading a zimmer frame. Any number of combinations form opinions, impressions for most individuals.
Consider looking at the cover of a book, reading the first chapter, skipping all but the last chapter. Or try cooking a meal with only the ingredients half memorised from a television programme without the steps. The result of both, can leave an incomplete expression, impression.
It is often the case that cities such as hilly old Sheffield has an unintended impression. Hills, a hill here a hill there. People have a single view, a city of 7 hills, a city of ancient steel. As York is known for its medieval artefacts and little else.
There was a man who never thought on these things but sought to change an opinion; that all can be viewed fully from beginning to end, perfectly, without unintended outcomes. He was the sort of person that thought too much perhaps. Too cyclically.
On his daily walk, he thought on each car and it’s place on the road day to day, the associated driver and their homes; on the people entering and leaving certain streets, shops and their assistants (not that he entered any). He considered clothes, shoes and accessories and jewellery. He considered patterns of buildings and how they aligned. He crafted a mosaic each day in his mind and formulated something akin to a tapestry. He knew where things should be, and when.
An interesting concept occurred to this man bred in Sheffield. He had thought on this for some time, and he happened to plan his day precisely according to this concept.
His name was Shaka Delwin.
Shaka checked his pockets as he took long loping strides toward home at 4:01pm. Red Pen. 2 pound coins (2003). A round sharpener. A 4.5 inch Pencil. Nothing missing he assured himself. For the past 9 years he had not altered his routine whilst working in Phllimore RC School, Sheffield.
Shaka donned an open collar navy checked shirt, straight cut navy trousers with a square silver button. Despite the brisk breeze, his jacket emerged only on the 23rd September until the 19th of March, all other days, whatever the weather, he wore his shirts.
The weather this day was clammy, wisps of moist air sifted through the many pupils who lingered beyond the school gates. He shook his head, but smiled as he came into view, towering over them. ‘It would be nice if a shadow smiled?’ His foster Mother used to say to him. He had taken this into his thoughts and his current smile was the answer.
Children were dressed in the customary grey pants, baby blue shirts and diagonally stripped ties boasting a crest. They occupied every crevice of the path. Shaka noticed things precisely as they were. 4 girls, each with coal hair. 3 girls, blonde. 2 larger girls with long socks. 5 boys, all wearing black pants. On and on. He mapped. Shaka muttered to himself, annoyed.
As he navigated around all he ensured the distance was at least 2 yards, often he found himself walking on the road but this suited him well.
He turned onto Stafford hill, striding enjoyably up hill, his long limbs pulsed. More children were littered. 4 backpacks, all black. 3 long skirts, all grey. 2 caps, facing backward. Shaka frowned.
6 minutes of walking upward culminated to the next left turn, Baker Avenue, his street 4 minutes away. Terraced houses, formally strung out as Christmas cards, lined both sides of the street. He liked this street where the choked unused chimneys pointed upward. His fishing sandals were soft to his naked foot, he hardly noticed he wore them, and looked at them briefly seeing a mark. He made a mental note. Another set of boys with black trousers and dark faces lined the path, all but one looked up at him from the pavement, he continued to smile following the white lines in the middle of the road.
“Freak.” One of them muttered
Hooded figures and a car in the distance were racing toward him. His eyes widened. The car was red, lights shining, which caused Shaka to look up to a lit clear sky, curious.
“Get off the road mister!” One of the boys said.
There were children and an elderly lady with a white flowered scarf and a man holding hands with a child on the other path. He could have walked behind them but that would eat into his time. He continued walking. The car neared, but swerved around him. Oddly he expected this. No car would run a man over. The car crashed into a tree, which leaned, quite broken, held up by a white Land Rover. The 4 hooded figures ran past Shaka. Each wielded a tool. Wooden beam, leg of a chair, a metal railing.
“Thanks pal.” One said, face masked.
Shaka, found himself nod. He stopped, paused for 30 seconds as he heard a commotion.
“…the hell are you doin’, this i’nt your fuckin’ car!”
A cry could be heard. Shaka continued to walk. He stopped again when he heard sirens some 29 seconds later. He checked his arm, a digital watch face looked at him, the alarm beeped.
Shaka looked down at the white lines in the middle of the road. He smiled a true smile.
Unexpectedly, an officer strode toward him.
“Out of the road sir.”
People were backing away from the commotion as a recoiling sea. Shaka realised the officer was getting closer, 5 yards, 4 yards, 3 yards, 2. Shaka began to mirror the steps. The officer stopped.
“Out of the road Sir!”
“Yes… Yes of course officer.”
As he stepped round the officer, he maintained his yards, he felt a feeling of satisfaction.
He stopped his alarm that had continued to beep. He looked back toward the commotion. A man lay sprawled on the ground. The car looked as though the sky had fallen on it. The hooded figures ran. Police and an ambulance loitered.
A crime, he thought, giddy. The haze of blue light bounced off the surrounding glass. My crime scene! he enthused.
Shaka knew the man driving the car was no victim. He was a known opportunist and had stolen the car 47 minutes ago. Shaka had made sure the pieces were laid out for him to follow. The patterns he noticed, he found, began to predict the nature of people.
Next time, I will try something new. He continued walking home as if unaware of the commotion behind him. As he turned the corner he checked his watch again. He was 27 seconds behind schedule. He widened his step until he reached his door, on time.