Forecast (6 page)

“Yeah,” Matthews replied bluntly.

Shaking water off his hands, he moved to the dryer and was feeding his palms beneath it when he felt someone tap his hip. Turning sharply, he saw the small man standing close by, too close, with an unreadable expression on his face and his hand lingering at the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

“Simon Matthews, right?”

Matthews froze with terror, his heart pumping so hard it felt as though it might put a hole in his chest, conscious to the fact that his life was about to end.

“I don’t want it…to end,” shouted Naomi Millington.

Trousers at his ankles and underpants at his knees, Matthews smiled as he continued to screw this girl over the dishwasher in his kitchen, loving every minute.

“Don’t stop!” she was screaming.

Matthews had enjoyed his fair share of flings with hundreds of women, had even been accused of being a sex addict, but no one quite touched his heart like Naomi. In spite of that, she only went for men with money, serious money, and it had him financially worried. He had already wiped out his savings account and his credit card was in serious trouble. The bank had been leaving him messages.

After sex, Naomi talked about going away for the weekend, but Matthews told her that he couldn’t afford it.

“I understand, we had a good run though, didn’t we?” she said cold-heartedly.

Two days later, the bank approved a thirty
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thousand
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pound bank loan in his name. Affording the monthly repayments on an Aerodynamics Data Engineering salary would be easy. But from there on his debt only increased; it was the only way he could keep up with Naomi’s expensive lifestyle and ensure that she stayed loyal to him.

Matthews started sleeping with other women to try and get her out of his mind. She was no good for him and he couldn’t go on living so lavishly just to keep her satisfied. But all the other women were nothing compared with Naomi. She was his addiction, his purpose, his queen. Killing her crossed his mind, just to force her out of his life. But he knew he didn’t have it in him. He could pay someone? No, it was getting out of control. She was costing him enough. Maybe he needed help. Murder? What was he thinking?

Determined to put an end to their relationship, Matthews went to visit Naomi, and he arrived just as a man was leaving her house. Before she could close the door, Mathews went straight up to her, honked up a hunk of phlegm and launched it in her face, the venom of his saliva stinging her eyes, like vinegar. Blinded, she tried to slap him but he arched back, turned and hurriedly left fitting his helmet to his head, crossing the road to his motorbike. A brick rebounded off his plastic windshield, splitting it down the middle, while Naomi screamed abuse at him from the road. With a menacing wheel spin, he sped away, shouting profanities into his helmet.

Matthews was invited to give a brief talk on aerodynamics to a class of college students because his old supervisor had turned lecturer and thought it would be inspirational for his students to meet an aerodynamic expert who could give them a firsthand insight into the industry. The class consisted of twelve learners seated in an arc.

“Now, the wonderful thing about aerodynamics is that it’s an engineering science. There are several applications,” Matthews said with his hands dipped into his trouser pockets. “Anyone know what they are?”

“What do you mean, exactly?” A student seated in the centre had his hand up.

“Well, think about it,” he said, standing in the corner of the room. “The diversity of bodies and the atmosphere is huge. For example, aerodynamic decelerators such as parachutes and thrust reversal devices. And how about spacecraft? Micro air vehicles to hypersonic wave riders.”

A man on the end had his hand raised. He was a fairly hand-some chap, a little older than Matthews. “Can you tell us about lighter than air vehicles, such as balloons?”

“Mm
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hmm, a good example. Sorry, what is your name?”

“Brad, Brad Sutcliffe.”

“Well, Brad, to name airships, blimps, balloons and aerostats is to name just a few. A cubic foot of air weighs roughly an ounce. Heat that by about thirty seven degrees Centigrade and it weighs about seven grams less. You do the maths. A single cubic foot of air contained in a hot
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air balloon can lift seven grams, which isn’t a great deal. That’s why hot
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air balloons are so large. The more heated air, the more weight they can lift.”

“That explains why my gran wears such large underpants,” one of the students joked.

A few laughed, others concentrated on taking down notes in their pads.

“Is there a scientific limit on, say, height and size of a balloon?” Sutcliffe asked.

“Most balloons are about one hundred thousand cubic feet, but they have been known to go six times that. That said, as long as the material is strong enough, you can go bigger. Ripstop nylon and polyethylene terephthalate are the most common materials used in modern ballooning.”

After class, Matthews saw Sutcliffe limping on crutches to his car and ran to catch him up. “Interested in ballooning then?”

Sutcliffe threw the crutches into his car and slammed the boot down. “You could say that.”

“My expertise is more paperwork based, more on the analysing of data and the scientific aspect of aerodynamics, but if you want to get into ballooning as a hobby, I have a mate who runs his own ballooning business.”

“Actually, I used to go often.”

“Oh, right. What brings you here to study?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m planning an expedition which I’m hoping will change the way people see the world.”

The wheels in Matthews’ brain started turning. Intrigued, he invited Sutcliffe out for a drink and listened all night long to his idea. The only thing delaying the project was a lack of finance and a crew, Sutcliffe said. Matthews was an opportunist, someone who thought in terms of achievement and self
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interest, and by the end of the night he had decided he wanted to be part of the team. The royalties from interviews, chat shows, books, documentaries, would never end.

The following day, he called Sutcliffe and told him not to worry about the money, he had it and would fund the project, provided he could join the balloon crew. Sutcliffe, short on options, agreed.

Matthews paid a visit to his bank manager in town, explaining that he was planning to invest money in a unique project and that he needed a large sum of money to do so. The bank manager led him through a series of routine questions to determine his eligibility. “I regret to inform you that your application for a bank loan has been declined,” he said.

“What?” Matthews thumped his fist down hard on the desk, dislodging some paperwork from an in
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tray. “Why?”

The manager was shocked. “Um, I’m sorry, but you’ve been blacklisted for failing to make repayments on your loan.”

Matthews shook his head. “I don’t care what your computer says. I need that money.”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

He harangued the bank manager for the best part of thirty minutes, eventually shouting abuse and storming out in front of a queue of baffled customers. He went straight to a rogue lender, knowing that although they would extort large sums of interest from him, they would give him what he needed. “You want us to help you,” said Kate Cornish, proprietor of Cornish Financial Services in the heart of London. She locked her fingers together in a ball and rested her chin on top, leaning forward. “Tell me why.”

“You’ll be investing in me as I’ll be investing in a project,” he began with confidence. “The project will be televised around the world and I’ll become famous overnight. Have you ever dated anyone famous?”

She didn’t look impressed.

Matthews explained the space balloon project to her and went through each stage of the operation. “Through publicity, we will make an absolute fortune and making the repayments will be a cinch.”

“So, what you’re saying is that our investment will make you a wealthy man?” With a face like stone, she made calculations and made a decision. “Alright, a sum of your choice at sixty percent interest.”

Matthews shook on it, then signed on it.

The date was set. The setting St. Ives in Cornwall. In the meantime, Matthews ensured that he made consistent monthly payments on time while Sutcliffe put the money into effect. He had hired a man named Keith Burch to design the balloon and Matthews was none too happy that the designer was joining them on the space flight. He lacked flight experience and had no need to be there. Burch had blackmailed his way in, refusing to build the balloon unless he joined the crew. Sutcliffe said he was looking for a fourth crew member and was going to advertise for someone fit, experienced in ballooning and proficient with cameras and technology.

“Don’t bother, I have just the person,” said Matthews. He introduced his cousin, Claris Faraday, and then they were four.

In June, as the handpicked crew of Fable-1 prepared to write a new chapter in aviation history, the small launch window waned when bad weather prevented the launch. High winds had ruptured the polyethylene material and forced them to postpone. They had to wait another year. The second time round, the weather had been ideal; glorious sunshine and no wind. As the final few hours to liftoff counted down, with the Fable
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1 helium balloon set up and partly inflated, more disappointment rocked the crew. The balloon was leaking. At first, Matthews and Sutcliffe thought the main valve had come open by mistake. Perhaps someone had tripped it. As it turned out, the balloon had torn at the seam. The following year, the weather had been peculiar and unfavourable cloud cover posed the risk of tons of ice forming on the balloon, jeopardising their safety, delaying them day after day until the weather window vanished altogether.

Matthews had been failing to make repayments on his loan as of late and Kate Cornish was sending collectors to remind him of his mounting debt, making threats as a tool for intimidation. Matthews turned to drugs; amphetamines during the day and strong sleeping pills at night, only feeling right when under their angelic spells. It took away all the stress and all the problems associated with debt. That day, when two collectors turned up at his home and forced their way in, he’d just stepped out of the shower and had put on a t-shirt when a tight hand whipped around his neck and shoved him into the wall.

“The money?” the thug growled, his lips drawn back revealing his sharp teeth.

“I need a little more…time,” he managed. “We…we launch the balloon next month. Gimme four weeks, I’ll have it…for you.”

While one of the hooligans smashed up his house, the other reached inside his pocket and Matthews looked down at a Bowie knife with an eight
-
inch broad blade pointing at his belly.

In the bathroom at the Moorland Links Hotel, as he stood opposite the short man whose hand was poised at his pocket, Matthews realised his life was in danger. His face turned to a veil of horror. Never had he seen the man before, he would have remembered him. But he surely represented Cornish Financial Services. Was there a blade in his pocket? A pistol?

“No, I’m not Simon Matthews,” he lied in a desperate attempt to spare his life. “You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

Matthews reached into his own jacket pocket where he had a concealed weapon of his own, an antique Black Prince dagger. If he could just reach it in time, he could defend himself.

The man persisted. “It’s you.”

“Look, I said I would get you the fucking money.”

Matthews watched the man pull out a silver weapon, realising that he had hold of a dictaphone. The reporter stood confused. “I just wanna ask you a few questions about the flight.”

Matthews went from panic to surprise, then relief to anger. “Get out of here, man.”

As the reporter walked out, cursing under his breath, Matthews waited for his pulse to settle, his entire body trembling. Once calm, he made his way to the Chandelier Ballroom where Brad Sutcliffe, Claris Faraday, Keith Burch and Jen Hennessey awaited his late arrival.

The lights in the Chandelier Ballroom dimmed smoothly while rolling cameras followed the crew of Fable
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1 out onto the stage, TV lights illuminating their profiles. Loud, unsettling applause and the whir of cameras erupted from the surplus of over one hundred journalists.

On the soundproofed wall behind the stage was a large screen dissolving a collection of images into one another at five
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second intervals. Images included the NASA Insignia, Fable
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1 printed in white letters set against a burgundy rectangle of background and an artist’s sketch of the balloon at target altitude with a background of black infinite space. When the crew took their seats, the Fable
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1 logo filled the screen and there it stayed. Taking the centre chair, Brad Sutcliffe looked into the audience at a number of faceless human silhouettes while Simon Matthews and Keith Burch claimed seats on his right, Jen Hennessey and Claris Faraday to his left.

“Good afternoon,” Sutcliffe began, adjusting the table
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mounted microphone to reach his mouth.

Sutcliffe and Matthews had jointly decided against a litany of presentations with follow
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up discussions because they’d taken that approach for the past three years and the media was becoming increasingly bored with it.