JUDAS
The poor you have with you always, but you will not always have Me.
--Jesus of Nazareth: The Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 26, verse 11
I For the SelfArtemis never really liked chocolate or other sugary delicacies. Nor fatty cuisine packed with cholesterol. The soft aroma of warm crusty bread was far more appealing than acidic foods that seemed to cut into his stomach like poisoned knives.
The other children munched happily on their chocolate bars, and ignored their bruised apples. Artemis, however, had eyes only for the loaf and wispy marmalades and butters sitting in the middle of the adults' table on the other side of the room.
Lunchtime was always the same at the nursery: chocolate and fruit and yoghurt for the children; hot bread and coffee for the adults. Artemis rarely ate his lunch – it was too processed, and the textures too blunt, while the flavours announced themselves with a megaphone.
But today, he was hungry.
He couldn't put his finger on why. After all, he had eaten breakfast as usual, and the thought, and the thought of is evening meal usually kept him going throughout Wednesday.
Wednesday was nursery day. His Mother had become increasingly worried by Artemis' growing isolation from the outside world. She had thought it wise to try and expose him to some other young children (rich children, of course) in the the hope that he might develop some social skills.
So, every Wednesday, he and Domovoi Butler would travel to the nursery and spend a day humouring the underpaid carers. Artemis hated it; unfortunately, at the age of three, he had little choice in the matter.
"I will be back in a moment," he said importantly to Butler.
"Where are you going?" the bodyguard asked. He was only allowed to attend, because of the extravagant fees the Fowls paid for high quality service and special treatment.
Artemis ignored this enquiry, and waddled casually over to the teachers' table, and said pleasantly, "May I have your bread, please." He made perfectly sure that there was nothing in his voice that might imply that he intended to share it with them.
Only one of them looked up, and none of them smiled. There were four workers at the nursery. They all worked ridiculously long and accommodating hour, and got paid little more than minimum wage for dealing with demanding parents and their spoilt offspring. All looked worse for weather: obese, grey and slumped… They both earned and enjoyed their coffee and bread.
"Sit back down and eat your yoghurt," she grunted dismissively.
Artemis looked back over at the other children. The tables were brightly coloured, as were their seats. They stood at only about a quarter of the height of the adults' furniture. Butler towered over the scene, eyeing the toddlers half-suspiciously.
"I would like some bread," he stated more firmly.
The other three heads around the table went up, and they looked at each other confusedly. This was clearly a more sophisticated brat.
"Go and sit back down," said Mrs Brown, the senior carer, and therefore they greyest and the fattest.
Artemis sighed and took four fifty-pound notes out of his pocket. He laid them on the table, picked up the bread and marched proudly back to his bright yellow stall. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the adults pocketing their money in a bemused but most certainly pleased way.
Artemis decided that day that he liked money. But he never retuned to the nursery.
II For the Conscience"Dinner, Artemis!" Angeline called.
"I will be down in a moment," he replied stoically. He was well aware that his mother had taken to calling him at least five minutes before it was ready in order to get him down in time.
News of a drought in a third world country was blurting through the speaker on his computer. On screen, stood starved children, their mouths dry and their rib cages almost bursting through their skin.
The pictures soon changed to African dictators… those bastards in their mansions, with swimming balls and servants, ignoring the humanitarian crisis that was going on within a few hundred miles of them. He wondered if they were watching the news on their computers, too.
A twinge of empathetic guilt struck into his side. He did business with those people; they bought shares in his companies, and he had undoubtedly funded them. Moreover, Artemis currently had a controlling stake in a company that produced coffee beans nearby.
He quickly filled in an online form, and donated a few thousand dollars to the relief effort, and switched off the screen. Then, he opened the curtains; it was raining.
Artemis suddenly liked the rain.
He ate and drunk well at dinner, and thought no more about the draught.
III For JudasArtemis walked out of his favourite jewellery shop, clutching the bag as if he could barely afford it.
He was eighteen years of age. And he had never been out without a Butler before; it was like losing a limb. He yearned for the safety and comfort of his car. The thought that anyone could approach him or even attack him without any challenge was extremely unnerving.
The 'experiment' as he had called it had been a bad idea.
"Spare some change," a dull voice asked from around his feet.
Artemis ignored it and kept his fast walking pace even.
A couple of seconds later, the voice called out again from behind: "Excuse me!"
He turned around – a little startled. The woman whose voice he had heard was now on her feet. She was young, no more than thirty. Her hair had been blonde originally, but was highlighted by patches of grey and black dirt. She wore disgusting, brown rags, which matched her teeth, and looked as battered as her skin. But in a decrepit sort of way, she was quite pretty.
"It's polite to respond," she said, her tone indignant, and far from humble.
Artemis looked her up and down. "I'm in a rush," he said anxiously but with all the politeness he could muster (because tramps, he was aware, could be vicious).
"Then say so."
"I just did."
She paused for a moment. "If nobody stops, I don't eat."
Artemis considered this for a moment – along with Rolex watch in his bag, and his luxurious Mercedes waiting in a car park, and the roast beef Butler was at home preparing.
"What is your name?" Artemis asked softly.
"Robyn."
And, suddenly, he felt burdened… needed even, like he had never done before. This woman needed him; that was the blunt fact she had just put forward. And yet he had never wanted to be further away from somewhere – away from the grey, and the rags, and the open, unprotected spaces.
He put his hand into the carrier bag, and pulled out the plastic box. Inside it, hung a beautiful, golden Rolex. It could not have contrasted from the grey repetition of the city. It had cost him ten thousand pounds, and was a one of a kind, an antique. He had been tracking it down for months.
There were few things that Artemis was willing to litter his wrist with: this was one of them.
"Why are you on the street, woman?"
She stood up and shrugged. "To live. Messed up a few exams, fired from a job or two, drugs, alcohol… The same reasons as everyone you see on the street. I messed up." Her eyes looked away as if scorning herself as she said this.
"Judas had it right." Artemis muttered.
"Sorry?"
"Jesus," he murmured. "He said that there would always be poor."
"'The poor you will always have with you,'" she replied. "Matthew chapter twenty-six, if I'm not mistaken"
Artemis nodded. "Verse eleven. Are you a Christian?" he asked sceptically.
"No. But I am poor." Robyn sniled. "And I have a good memory."
"Seemingly."
He walked up to the woman, uncertain that he was really going to do what he intended. "Give me your wrist."
She did not move, and eyed him closely.
Artemis took her hand gently in his. She frowned, but did not resist. Artemis gulped disbelieving, and attached the watch to her wrist. After he had done so, he removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.
"Good day to you," he said quietly.
"Hold on a second!"
Artemis turned.
"What's your name?" Robyn asked.
"Does it matter?"
"No. I shall call you Judas. Why have you given this to me."
"I no longer require it. I suggest you sell it," Artemis answered flatly. "I would wager that the jewellery shop over there would pay a hansom fee for it."
"I would rather have some lunch."
Artemis raised an eyebrow deliberately, and stared at the fearless guile of the tramp.
"Then you shall have both. Come, walk with me; I have an excellent chef."
They walked on slower than before, and with thoughts of roast beef playing far less heavily on Artemis' mind.
End
Look what I dug up from a sick-day a couple of months ago! I don't know what got into me at all. But, I have to be honest: I actuallyquite like these little ficlets, even if they are a tad random and short.
My favourite is definitely the last one. I'm thinking of writing a piece about this OC and Artemis.
Please drop a review.
(As always, excuse any typos you might find. I gennuinely can't see them.