Brilliant Short Stories Read online

  Tom Chirk and Will Cardrew became even more concerned about their friend two days later. Tulley had missed work on two consecutive occasions without ringing his employer to say whether he was sick, taking a short holiday, or was absent for some other reason. After work at the end of the second day, they went to his home to find out what was wrong.

  ‘You’ve missed two days work,’ explained Tom with concern. ‘We wondered what happened to you.’

  ‘You didn’t ring in to say you were sick,’ added Cardrew.

  ‘I’m busy,’ returned Ginty, in a casual manner. ‘Very busy. You see, I’ll be able to fly like a bird shortly so I won’t need the job any more.’

  ‘But if you fly and don’t work,’ rattled Chirk, considering the man had lost his senses, ‘how will you be able to afford to buy food?’

  The bird man laughed easily. ‘I shall eat like a bird, of course. Berries. Vegetables. Lots of small stuff. I must reduce weight. I have to make sure my legs get thinner. Look, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll survive.’

  ‘So that’s it then,’ concluded Cardrew, tiring of the nonsense. ‘You’re not coming back to work and soon you’ll be off. Where to?’

  Tulley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll cross to Europe, or fly to the United States.’ His face broke into a grin and he made a noise which sounded familiarly like a bird twittering. ‘There are distinct advantages with self-perpetuated flight. I mean, I won’t have to go through Customs or anything like that.’

  Cardrew walked to the door, wishing to end his association with the affair but Chirk still felt some sympathy for their mutual friend. ‘Is there anything you want us to do?’ he asked amiably, willing to help.

  ‘No thanks,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve got it all set up. In a few days’ time I’ll be gone for ever. But you’ve been real good buddies to me. I’d like to see you once more before I go. Is that okay with the pair of you?’

  ‘Sure. Sure,’ confirmed Cardrew insincerely, and the two men left the premises extremely concerned about the welfare of their friend.

  ‘I think we’ve got to get him to a psychiatrist,’ suggested Chirk. ‘He’s way off beam. Do you think we should contact a doctor, or the hospital... or maybe the police?’

  ‘It’s not our problem any more,’ returned the other man. ‘As he said, he’ll be off soon. Gone for ever.’

  ‘We still have time to try and make him see sense,’ persisted Chirk, refusing to give up on a friend.

  His colleague took him by the arm and led him away. ‘The man’s obsessed. If we took him to the asylum they’d lock him up for the rest of his life. What good would that do? Just let him fulfil his obsession. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a win-win situation. You see, if he succeeds... whether in his mind or otherwise... he’ll be over the moon. If he fails, that’s the end of it. He’ll be out of his misery once and for all. Just let him go, Tom. Let him go!’

  The following day, the Welshman travelled to an East Midlands manufacturing company to inspect the prototype of the frame of his wings. He was greeted by the design engineer who took him into the area where the work was almost completed.

  ‘As we agreed,’ began the man, ‘the frame’s made entirely of carbon fibre. Strong. Light. Of tensile strength with resistance to a force tending to tear it apart, expressed as the maximum longitudinal stress it can withstand. It’s shaped like a bird’s wing as in your design, with ribs in both latitude and longitude directions to form a mesh. We’ve used your exact measurements. Unfortunately, I wasn’t here when you ordered it. I’m intrigued. What’s its purpose? I’m dying to know.’

  ‘I’m going to fly,’ declared Tulley unashamedly. ‘These frames are my wings.’

  ‘But how can you be certain the measurements you gave us are correct for flight?’ asked the engineer.

  ‘From the details relating to bats. You see, the average bat is four-and-a-half inches long, including the tail. The wings, when spread fully, measure fourteen inches from tip to tip. That’s just over three times the length. Bats have long fingers with a membrane stretched between them. The web stretches from the shoulders down the two bones of the arm over the bones of the hand and down the tips of the four fingers. From the underside of the arms it reaches down to the legs as far as, what would be, our ankles and between the legs to join on to the tail. I’ve compensated by ensuring the wing span is three-and-a-half times the length of my body. The frame has loops through which I put my arms, ending with a permanent glove fitted to the frame on each side for my hands. It’s not a million miles away from a bat.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ returned the other man. ‘But what are you going to use to cover the mesh?’

  ‘Feathers, of course. A company only three miles from here is manufacturing a matrix of nylon feathers specially designed to resemble a bird’s flying feathers. They’ll secure them to this frame as a permanent feature. As soon as it’s completed they’ll fit the feathers.’

  ‘Well, I wish you good luck,’ concluded the engineer. ‘No doubt we’ll be reading about you in the National Press.’

  When he left, Tulley went directly to the company making the feathers. The project was precisely on schedule. They had almost completed their task and would soon be ready to fit them onto the frame. Satisfied that all was going to plan, he continued his journey to Doncaster in Yorkshire to visit a large rubber factory... the subsidiary of an international conglomerate... to determine how far they had proceeded with his outfit.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Tulley,’ confirmed the managing director. ‘I’m delighted to say it’s finished, although I hesitate to ask its purpose. It can’t be for diving.’

  ‘No, it’s for flying,’ replied the Welshman casually.

  ‘Flying... I see. Well we’ve made a jacket for you with an inner and outer wall which has been filled with helium and hermetically sealed. It feels like rubber but it’s really a new material that will never wear out. We’ve made you a pair of trousers in the same material, also with an inner and outer wall, filled with helium and hermetically sealed. But the space between the two walls in the trousers is six times that of the jacket. The helium will certainly help you to float in the air. I don’t suggest you try to walk too far in them.’

  Tulley tried on the suit in which it was awkward for him to walk but he was more than satisfied with the result.

  His next port of call was to an engineering firm in Glasgow which was making the last part of the equipment he needed. He had designed a device, which he called ‘the contraption’, and hoped they had found the answer to his major question... how could the wings be made to work?

  ‘Aye,’ said the chief engineer, with a strong Scottish accent. ‘It was a challenge because of the need to find a material that had durability. But we did it. Mind you, it’ll cost. This contraption, as you call it, fits on to your shoulders and also on to the frame.’ He took the Welshman to a work-bench and pointed to the device. ‘A double spring is fixed to a plate which is connected to both your shoulder and the frame. It acts very much like a rat-trap being sprung to force the frame downwards strongly. And it works very effectively too.’ He demonstrated the model and Tulley was extremely impressed.

  When he returned home, the Welshman contacted his two trusted friends and they met at the Royal Oak inn for the last time.

  ‘Well I’m off tomorrow,’ he told them jubilantly, although they were less euphoric about his departure.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ began Chirk uneasily. ‘You’ve got a jacket and trousers made of a special durable rubber material with double walls, and helium has been hermetically sealed inside. That’s to help you float, is it?’ He couldn’t imagine such a small amount of helium keeping his friend afloat.

  ‘There’s a dual purpose,’ explained the Welshman. ‘It’ll keep me warm as well. It’s cold up there, you know.’
/>   Cardrew finished his pint of beer and stared at his friend bleakly. ‘I understand the jacket and trousers, the carbon fibre mesh frame, the nylon feathers, and the contraption... the spring device... that gives you the downward power movement, but I don’t understand how the wings go up again? Have you thought that one through properly?’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ replied Tolley, with a smile on his face. ‘Have you ever noticed what happens when a bird stops flapping its wings?’

  ‘It glides and then starts to lose height,’ said Chirk.

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I’m going to do... using gravity to its best advantage in flight. You see, after the downward power stroke, I lift the wings slightly. As I fall by means of gravity, the air underneath creates pressure which forces the wings upwards and resets the contraption. Its a repetitive procedure. I pull the wings downwards slightly so that the contraption powers them down with force, giving me the impetus I need for flight. As I lift the wings and fall slightly, the pressure of the air below pushes them up again to reset the contraption. It’s all done by gravity and the laws of nature.’

  Cardrew shook his head in amazement. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you to work it all out so precisely,’ he said, getting to his feet to recharge his glass. ‘You’re a real card, did you know that?’

  At the end of the evening, Tulley offered his farewell and left the inn. He had rented a van to take the gear to North Wales where he wanted to visit his foster parents for the last time. Thereafter, his new life would begin. As a Welshman, it was fitting for him to fly from a Welsh mountain and he knew the very place to take off. At last, flying would be real... there was no need to dream any more.

  The next day, he prepared to carry out the last tactical part of his plan. It was the biggest... the most important of all! Fitted out with all his gear, he stood at the edge of the precipice and looked down. The morning mist filled the air but he could still see a sickening drop of three hundred feet below him. It was a first-hand experience to recognise how Oliver of Malmesbury, the eleventh-century Benedictine monk, and all the other pioneers of self-flight felt at this particular moment. Apprehension and a large element of fear welled-up inside him. Suddenly, confidence spurred itself into recognition and adrenalin flowed through this body. He took two steps forwards... flapped his wings... and he was airborne... flying smoothly out into space, with cross air-currents tugging fiercely at his body.

  In time, legend or European mythology will have it that a man in Britain was so obsessed with individual unassisted flight that he found the way to overcome all the obstacles and problems by himself. The record will show he was seen flying across the Atlantic of his own accord, without the help of any device powered by an engine and that his large wings were seen flapping gently and evenly at his shoulders... just like a bird. Of course, some sceptics will deny he could do it. They will claim it was a myth or an aberration of the eye of the observer, such as the sighting of an unidentified flying object. Others will say that after a modicum of success his arms grew tired and he failed, falling into the ocean and drowning... just like all the rest. However, no one could deny reports that filtered through to the authorities from people all over the world concerning a strange large creature, resembling a human-being, which had been seen at some time flying low in the sky over the Rocky Mountains, the Andes, the Alps and the Urals. Indeed, there was intangible evidence that Tulley had become the first man to fly like a bird although, after those initial reports, he was never seen again. Perhaps somewhere... somehow... he was able to convince the birds that he was one of their kind to join them in a remote place far, far away. In the end, he may have fully satisfied his obsession whereby he could streak towards the clouds, touch the sky, and approach the entrance to God’s Heaven. It’s what he always wanted to do. Maybe that’s what he did! And if you don’t believe it, tell it to the birds!

  Obit

  One of the main flaws of human nature is the failure to be able to know what other people think, especially when they are considered to be friends. Indeed, if the evidence is absent, there may also be a failure to know the things they do which deeply affects other people’s lives.

  It started early that morning when Bellamy decided to remain home that day to deal with a number of of obituaries in the quiet of his country home instead of going to the newspaper office in the city. Without warning, Frank, a senior newspaper reporter and close colleague turned up out of the blue.

  ‘Hi, Bellamy!’ he greeted, coming through the open door. ‘The front door was open.’ He ran his fingers round the rim of his trilby hat nervously.

  Bellamy stopped typing to stare at him. ‘I’ve told Mary a hundred times to close that door,’ he grumbled, ‘but she never does! What are you doing here at this time of the morning? Your presence indicates it must be bad news.’

  Frank swallowed hard. ‘Look, the next bus wasn’t due for half an hour. I walked all the way from the village. Do you mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Of course. Would you like a drink?

  The senior reporter sat down, still playing with the rim of his hat. ‘Thanks. I could do with one. Anything will do.’

  Bellamy went to the cocktail cabinet and poured him a whisky. ‘It must be pretty important for you to come all the way down here.’

  Frank took the drink from him. ‘I think you’d better sit down too. It’s bad news!’

  ‘Well don’t keep me in suspense, Frank. Has the paper gone bust? Has our illustrious editor, Fletch, run off with that Caroline something-or-other who writes the Woman’s page? Or was the office building demolished by lightning in the storm last night?’

  His colleague stared at him sadly. ‘It’s worse than... for you anyway. You see, Tim’s dead!’

  ‘Or is it possible the whole of the... ’ He tailed off as the words filtered through. ‘... What did you say?’

  ‘Tim Collier’s dead. They sent me to break the news to you personally.’ He sipped his drink slowly.

  ‘He went to Banovatu only three days ago. What happened?’

  ‘He was shot. Someone shot him in the back.’

  Bellamy became consumed with anger. ‘ Bastards! Shot him in the back! Shot my best friend in the back! God, is it worth it? You knock your guts out trying to make a living by reporting the news and then some trigger-happy fool ends it all in one second from a Kalashnikov rifle. No time to pray. No time to say goodbye to the wife and kids. No time for messages for relatives or friends... nothing! What a waste of a life! How could anyone shoot an innocent man in cold blood? Surely they must have seen he had a pen in his hand... not a gun! But then he was shot in the back. They wouldn’t have noticed what he had in his hands. The cowards! He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Jesus! Couldn’t they see he wasn’t wearing a uniform! They must have been blind? Ugly things happen in war... but to shoot an unarmed man in the back when he’s not wearing a uniform is sheer murder. I hope they rot in hell!’

  ‘Fletch wants you to write his obituary. He was your best friend. It’s what you would want. But there’s a deadline. A war correspondent killed in a foreign war is a major news item. Topical interest. He said I should bring it back with me.’

  ‘He would say that!’

  ‘All I know is that I drew the short-straw... to tell you the news.’

  Bellamy poured himself a stiff drink and slumped into a chair. ‘The fun we used to have together. Great times! Everyone envied us. I remember the look on the faces of John Mac, Old Bill and Albie when we turned up each morning. Tim had an aura about him. We all knew he was going to make it to the top. It was all I could do to hang on to his shirt-tails.’ He took a long swig and emptied the glass. ‘How could anyone shoot an innocent man in the back... in cold blood? I mean it, I hope they rot in Hell!

  ‘He knew the risk.’

  Bellamy’s face took on a painful expression. ‘Jesus! How could anyone do a thing like t
hat? Does Jenny know yet?’

  ‘They sent Lisa Baker. She’s probably telling her this minute.’

  ‘They were like two love-birds.’ He paused to reflect for a moment. ‘S’funny, Tim and I were opposites, you know. Two newspaper-men so different. But then opposites create greater impact. Maybe that’s why the chemistry worked so well.’ He sat up and inhaled deeply. ‘You can tell Fletch the obituary will be so great it’ll glow in the night sky. Tim would do the same for me if I went first.’ He turned to the computer and began typing the text.

  “Tim Collier, senior war correspondent for the Daily Globe was killed yesterday during heavy fighting in Banovatu. Over the past twenty-five years, he covered no less than eighteen wars spanning three continents, and was renowned for being the only newspaper correspondent to advance fearlessly with front line troops in each battle. He had a reputation among his peers to report the true facts at the forefront of the war as incidents occurred. His communiques gave the public the news they wanted to read in the form of graphic realism unparalleled by reporters from any other newspapers. His stories included tales of innocence, courage, death and destruction, valour, heroism, carnage and despair. But there were two features of paramount importance. He wrote about people and the human side of life; and he always reported the truth.”

  Frank rose and went to the cocktail cabinet to refill his glass. ‘The truth?’ he repeated. ‘That depends on which side you happen to be.’

  Bellamy looked at his colleague before musing on the past. ‘I remember how Tim moved from the sports pages to the domestic news scene. I was struggling on the financial pages at the time. We were about the same age and he used to tell me about his ambitions... for ambitious he was! More than anything, he wanted to get to the top. Well, there was never any harm in dreaming. It was the Rose incident that changed everything.