The Jump  by SJ Butler

The pigeon pecking imaginary seed on the outside ledge thought it strange that Alan should open the office window and join her – his long gangly, shaky, legs unfit for perching eleven floors up.

‘Don’t worry little bird, I won’t be here long,’ he said at last standing with his back to the glass, the palms of his sweaty hands acting as limpets attaching him securely to the building.

Below, the unassuming world poured past in the wet morning rush hour. Red buses, taxis, throngs of workers smudged together like a recently painted watercolour. Honking horns, the drone of hissing diesel engines, the odd snippet of conversation, a whiff of coffee and croissants – a symphony of life in motion, filled his senses as his tummy rumbled and a cold, electric shiver rose from his spine, zapping him on the back of the head.

‘Will he? Could he?’ That and much more spun around his doubting noggin. Glancing back and forth between the bird, life below and the non-descript sky, as if doing so it would help him make the right decision, he told himself there was no going back, and that he’d gone over it enough; it was time to go; he’d resolved to do it.

The pumping veins and rhythmic pulse in his calves, like a space rocket fuelling its booster jets before lift-off, made him wobble on the spot – his legs going to jelly as he bent his knees ready to jump.

‘Good bye bird – thanks for the company.’ It was a strange thing to say, but he had to say something – everyone has to have a bon voyage – there has to be an exit. ‘I must go now,’ he said dramatically, staring off into the distance where the dome of St Paul’s loomed like an ominous soap bubble.

One step forward and…

The spring in his step hadn’t let him down, had propelled him like before, upwards, lifted on a stream of warm air.

‘Whooh-hah!’ he cried, spreading his arms as he temporarily dipped then rose like a flimsy kite.

High above the city he flew, his overcoat flapping precariously (as you’d expect from a novice). If anyone was to look up they’d think he was a large hybrid raven or a Dementor – scouring London Town for prey.

Down the river, over Tower Bridge, towards Island Gardens, beyond, to the estuary, he freely glided, accompanied by squawking hungry gulls, who demonstrating how it was done and showing off a little, dive bombed the water below for fish.

‘Yes! Yes!’ he cried as if experiencing joy for the first time, dipping high then low over the salt marshes. The untouched nesting sites, calling out as he passed, their acknowledgment of his very being, both sacred and profound.

Sadly, he wasn’t the only flyer, time was too, a church bell tolling in the distance jolting him back to the reality of his non-bird life. But, by crikey, he was a good flyer.

Alan knew he’d flown before. For years he had dismissed it as childhood fantasy, but with time the image had become stronger, more a fact than a stupid dream. As a boy he’d run across the Clapham Common like a human Wright brothers’ contraption, willing his spindly, bare legs to propel him to the clouds. On the second run he’d made it, light as a feather – free as a bird, rising high over the streets where he lived. Later, after many daring sorties it just kind of fizzled out. The child psychologist at the time dismissed it as a flight of fancy, that he was escaping trauma – which was kind of true, as the stutter which resurfaced from time to time reminded him. And then life just swallowed him up – made him like everyone else. He tried to conform, but he wasn’t happy. Until this day thirty years on when he’d climbed out on the ledge and jumped.

Through the arch of a rainbow, sprayed with salt water, then dried by the temporary sun, he was the luckiest person in the world – in fact the sky, now show-boating his skills with turns and spins, letting out bellied yells, whooping with abandon – perhaps the child he should have been.

The vibration of his Fitbit, the only distraction – a quick reminder that his aviation adventure would soon be at an end, he reluctantly headed back to the old part of the city where his office gloomily waited, the 11.30 departmental meeting he had to attend looming like a death sentence. Past St. Catherine’s Dock he now ceased flapping as he began to dip and drop for landing.

‘You made it,’ cooed the pigeon as he expertly touched down.

‘And you make it look easy,’ replied Alan opening the window.

Climbing back in, pleased that they’d made a connection, the bird flew away.

An email reminder pings at his desk. He playfully squawks in reply.

Butler, S.J.

Image by Rajesh Balouria from Pixabay – A common pigeon on a ledge peering downwards.