Found

Short Story by Gareth A. Williams 2006

'Found 'ee in the road, y'say?'

'Yes. Just lying there, unable to get up.'

I saw again in my mind the absurdly oversized gull ' still speckled from youth ' squatting in the narrow street, panting its distress as cars edged around as best they could and sped away. Only then did I notice the commotion above: seemingly dozens of seagulls screeching noisily, circling. A terror-stricken extended family, I surmised, unable to do anything for its fallen young.

An overwhelming sense of paternal responsibility had washed over me and I knew I couldn't let the young creature die ' not right there outside my holiday cottage. I grabbed a towel from the kitchen ' newly washed ' and draped it over the bird. I was then able to pick him up. I remember being surprised at how light he was, despite his size. Although the gull did little struggling (perhaps because of his injury) I was wary of the long, vicious-looking bill. As I carried my precious cargo under my arm, I was aware we made an awkward sight; I imagined I was playing a complicated pair of bagpipes, from which little noise was forthcoming.

I made my way through the rabbit-warren streets of this tiny Cornish harbour ' receiving incredulous glances from tourists and locals alike ' to the Wild Bird Hospital. I knocked twice, loudly. The noise appeared to revive my charge. I could feel him tense up through the warmth of the towel, but still he made no sound.

I would guess that I waited about a minute for the door to be opened, but it felt longer. I was considering knocking a second time when it was flung open by a fat woman. She sounded out of breath, as if she'd been running, but I hadn't heard her footfall on the other side of the door. She asked no questions; simply looked at the bird, which told her all she needed to know.

'I found him in the road, further up the hill.' I felt I had to say something.

She briefly disappeared and returned with a cardboard box, which she placed on to the floor. She opened the top and beckoned me to place the bird inside. As I started to lower him, he finally showed signs of life, straining to position his head so he could nip my hands. I'm glad to say he never quite managed it. Once he realised he was approaching the box, he stuck out his feet for a landing and I let him go. However, the moment he was grounded, he keeled over and came to rest like a fishing boat at low tide. He seemed unable to right himself, and after a few attempts, gave up and lay meekly squat and still. I only just remembered to reclaim my towel before the woman shut the box.
'So¦ what do you think? Of his chances? Will he live?'

'Oh, I don't know about that.'
I considered her reply rather dismissive, and I think my face must have betrayed this for she quickly added, 'Don't worry - this is the best place for 'ee.'

I began my walk back to the cottage having left my foundling at the hospital. I could still feel the bird's warmth in the towel. I decided to return the next day to ensure they were taking good care of him.

As I made my way back through the tiny streets I wondered if people recognised me, the man with the bird. 'There he goes,' they might have been saying. 'That man made a mercy-dash through the village to save a young life. See that towel in his hand? He wrapped the bird in that.' There was, at the back of my throat, along with the now familiar taste of sea salt, something else. Pride? I smiled at this ludicrous sensation! It was more likely, I thought, that the memory of the event had already faded, and my face and features had melted back into obscurity.

I reached my cottage and let myself in. I looked at the towel in my hand. It was white with a faded blue lighthouse motif. The gull's body heat had left it now, and there was nothing to link it with the afternoon's event. I pondered the need to wash it again. Is a seagull dirty? I decided not to risk it, and put it straight in the washing machine.

By the time I had eaten at the only pub in the village, and finished off most of a bottle of Chenin Blanc, the tide was out. I guessed there was less than an hour of daylight left. I took the opportunity to clamber over the rocks to the water's edge. I had done this every day of my holiday so far. I rarely had this time and space to myself. I enjoyed sitting quietly, watching the water dance round my feet like a playful hound. The crashing sound was hypnotic and beautiful.

I remembered once again the seagull, which would almost certainly have ended up dying beneath the wheels of some tourist's four-by-four. I had done the right thing, and the village was a better place for such a kind act.

Perhaps it was the wine, but I felt maudlin this evening. I allowed my thoughts to dwell on city things: the cars, the people and the endless drone of too little time. I considered where I might fit into it all, with my one-bedroom apartment, my life divorced from ' well, everything, I supposed - and my busy but monochrome identity as an office administrator. I was a typical city rusher. No time for anyone, no interest in anyone. And I was driven by the absolute certainty of the feeling being mutual. In this fashion, I whiled away what was left of the day.

As the sun started its descent behind the highest houses in the village, the rocks began to change, to darken, becoming indistinct and unfamiliar. The breeze coming in off the sea ' so welcomed during the sticky afternoon ' was now becoming chilly, and I was aware of the thinness of my linen shirt.

As my surroundings darkened they became less comfortable, less friendly. The tide had recently turned and the waves, which had earlier played the role of faithful friend, were beating a hasty retreat. It was as if the village had found me out.

I was no hero. Make no mistake. What hero would do what I had done?

I recalled, now, a late winter evening some months before this time. I was scurrying home from work in the dark, the wind, the rain. It was that dead time between the traffic leaving the city at the end of the day and when it returned in the evenings for the restaurants, pubs and cinemas. It was the time of day when children should be eating hot meals prepared by busy mothers. I left the office late. That damn report just couldn't wait till morning, could it? I'd missed my bus, I knew that; there was nothing for it but to wrap my coat around me and stride out into the filthy evening. Why tonight, when I had so much to do? I planned to revise a chapter tonight. Nothing was more important to me than my novel, my future, my way out of that office. I knew it would be a best-seller. The agent hadn't sounded too keen when I wrote to him, but that was because I hadn't sold it well enough. It would be his loss. Besides, the novel had improved immeasurably since then, and I could feel that I was due, this evening, a breakthrough.

It was then that I saw it: a black mound in the road. An old carpet escaped from a precariously loaded skip? As I walked along the pavement, I soon found myself level with it. It was obviously no carpet. I could see ' oh, I'll never forget ' the arms raking out at impossible angles, the single trainer removed from the foot, dislodged, I presumed, as the boy was dragged briefly along by the undercarriage. There was no sign of the vehicle. I looked again, and I'm sure the eyes were looking at me, pleading¦

It was all too easy to convince myself that I was seeing things. It must have been a carpet; it was so dark, and the weather so bleak, I couldn't possibly have seen the gruesome details I'd imagined. Yes, it was a carpet. I went home and started work on my manuscript. I became absorbed in the task of redrafting and editing.

The next day's newspaper confirmed my fears. A hit and run; a boy of fifteen dead; his parents devastated. I read the article quickly and most of the details I can no longer recall. One phrase, however, still haunts me, will always haunt me: '¦he was still alive when the ambulance arrived.'

The darkness was such that I could no longer pick out details further than my feet. Somewhere close by, the waves were crashing ceaselessly against rocks. 'There he is,' they were saying. 'There is the man who did nothing.'