The Red Angel: Chapter One.

by ~knifeeven

Phillip Wiseman looked at the man seated opposite him and smiled wryly. Nineteen years of professional acumen stopped the chagrin expression from spreading across his face, and as he leaned across his desk with his hands clasped tightly, the young twenty-something man turned to the audience and spoke.
   “Don’t you think he should at least try ladies and gentlemen?”
   “YES!” the crowd roared, the mass of multi-toned voices filling the studio.
The young man rose from his seat, extending his right arm in an inviting gesture to the host of the show, and Mr Wiseman somewhat reluctantly put both hands on his desk, arched his spine and pushed his seat backwards in one graceful fluid movement, stood up, smiled and walked onto the small stage in the centre of the room. He watched his guest skilfully begin to juggle three beanbags, the small cloth sacks rhythmically rising and falling in a variety of different patterns and began to wonder just how he’d been coerced into this public display of his own incapability. Always play to the crowd, he thought to himself, keep them happy, entertained and eating out of the palm of your hand.
   “Your turn,” said the man through a broad smile that displayed all of his even, bleached white teeth. “Just keep your eyes on the bag in the air and try to maintain a steady pace.”
Phillip Wiseman took the three objects, pondered them for a second and proceeded to comically fumble and drop all three bags on the floor, his hands frantically grabbing the air in a futile effort to catch the sacks and retain a modicum of self esteem. Smiling continuously throughout the whole ordeal, he stooped down to recover and return the beanbags to their owner, turning to the main camera and clapping his hands together firmly before he spoke.
   “Well that’s all we’ve got time for I’m afraid, so why don’t you give a big round of applause to all of our guests tonight and join me back here at five o’clock tomorrow? Take care and see you then.”
The sound of cheering and clapping drowned out the ambient noise as the lights dimmed and the host of one of the highest rated teatime chat shows bowed, waved and made his way backstage.
   “Where the hell do you find these people?” Wiseman snapped at a young female member of staff. “It’s bad enough having imbeciles like that on the show, let alone me having to make a damned fool of myself standing next to them like some kind of performing monkey. Next time we’ll just get one of those brainless, lowlife audience members to volunteer to get up on stage and make themselves look like an idiot in front of millions of viewers. You know the kind of person I mean – the ones that have no self-respect and will do anything to get on TV.”
He continued to rant as he walked down the corridor towards his dressing room, his assistant loyally following behind him, her feet shuffling quickly along the floor as she tried to keep up.
   “But the audience always like it when you get involved with the guests,” she said meekly, peering over the top of the stack of files and folders she was clutching tightly to her torso like some kind of cardboard barricade that would protect her from the torrent of verbal abuse that was no doubt about to spill forth from the TV presenter’s mouth. “Especially when you can’t do something. It makes them laugh and they relate to you on a personal level. They see that you’re just an ordinary person, like them.”
Wiseman stopped walking and turned around to face his personal assistant. He craned his neck forward, so his face was merely inches away from hers, and spoke with a bitter tone of condescension and hostility in his voice.
   “Do you see that sign over there?” he said pointing forcefully.
The young girl nodded, and at the same time raised her paper shield so that it covered her mouth and the tip of her nose, and she was now starting to wish she’d not said anything at all.
   “Well, read it then,” he snapped scornfully as if she was somehow supposed to know what to do.
   “It says The Phillip Wiseman Show,” she answered tentatively, the papers in her arms buckling under the strain of her tense clasp.
   “What’s that? Did you say something?” he replied, mimicking the soft, nervous tone in her voice.
   “It says The Phillip Wiseman Show, Ss…sir,” she stuttered, closing her eyes and wincing, hoping he would appreciate the fact that she’d only started work for him just over two weeks ago and was still finding her feet.
   “Exactly,” he snarled arrogantly. “The Phillip Wiseman Show, not The-Smarmy-Smart-Arsed-Personal-Assistant-Show. You just concentrate on telling me which idiot is on the show on what day and getting me coffee, and I’ll decide how to please the crowd, ok? Now just get me my car, I’ve had enough of this crap for one evening and I want to go home.”
The last sentence that left Wiseman’s mouth struck her with fear, as she realised that she’d forgotten to book a car to take him home. Plucking up as much courage as she could muster, she shakily leafed through her papers so as to break eye contact with the man that was adored and worshipped by so many men, women and children for providing such wonderful family entertainment, but was in fact a puerile, spoilt, misogynist bully.
   “I…I forgot,” she whispered in a barely audible voice, but still loud enough for him to hear and most definitely over-react to.
   “YOU WHAT?” he yelled, the sheer volume of his voice causing the young girl to freeze on the spot. “Christ, I don’t ask much do I?” he said rolling his eyes and throwing his arms loosely into the air. “Tell me who’s on the show, get me coffee and make sure I’ve got a car to bring me here and one to take me home, but you can’t even get that right. Do you have a brain? Do I speak some kind of dead language that no one understands? NO, that’s the answer to both those questions, you complete waste of space and breathable air.”
Tears were streaming down the girls face as she sobbed heavily under the onslaught of spiteful words spilling out of the monster’s mouth.
   “But it’s not far to walk Mr Wiseman,” she managed to articulate in between snivelling and blubbing, “You only live round the corner.” She looked up at him with her eyes blackened and mascara running down her cheeks, to see a look of pure shock and disbelief on her bosses’ face.
   “REALLY?” he barked sarcastically, clearly taken aback by the audacity of her remark. “Well, you should know just how far it is to walk to the job centre then, shouldn’t you? Don’t bother coming back tomorrow, or any other day for that matter because you’re sacked. Now get out of my sight.”
Phillip Wiseman stormed down the corridor and violently shoved the back door to the studio open to be greeted by the cold and rain, the fluorescent glow of London at night, the overwhelming noise of traffic and people in the street, and the beautiful collage of lights and lines that reflectively adorned the wet pavement and windows. Great, he thought to himself, not only do I have to walk home, but it’s pissing down with rain as well. He put his hands in his pockets, and drew his shoulders up around his neck and walked out into the busy street, his thoughts preoccupied with his incompetent assistant and the fact that he was getting cold and wet, and disappeared into the crowd as he made his way home.