Short Story (Mar 09)

Mickey Corbett pushed back a wayward strand of hair, tapped a skinny finger on the mouse, and smiled. Well, at least it's different, he thought, enlarging the central picture of the site. She certainly was a beauty too, and the shot was a classic one: smiling girl reclining on a sofa, crossed legs showing a nice amount of smooth thigh. The black dress was body-hugging and revealed a glimpse of cleavage in an old-fashioned, movie-star way. Although her black hair and creamy skin made her look a bit Goth, Mickey thought. He shook his head and clicked on the competition rules again.

'Entries no more than three thousand words. Theme: Dinner At My Place. Entry online only, five euros. One entry per person. Results March 31st.

First Prize: Dinner at my place.

Second prize: Dinner, in Dublin City, venue to be agreed.

Third prize: Lunch, also to be agreed.'

What a scam! he thought. She'll make a bloody fortune. Who wouldn't enter that, for a fiver? Not exactly the Booker, but still. Opening up a Word page, he stared at it for a long time, his mind as blank as the screen. And suddenly, like a religious revelation, there it was. Mickey began typing, his fingers skittering about the keys and a smile of triumph welded to his bony face.

By midnight he was finished. Reading the story through once again, Mickey lowered a trembling hand to the mouse and clicked 'save'. It was good - better than good. It'll win, he told himself, it has to bloody win! And when it does, we'll have our dinner, me and that girl. And then I'll send it to every agent and publisher in the country. And then we'll see.

The last day of March was blustery and confused. Wind and sheeting rain rushed through the city streets, followed by bursts of steamy sunshine. People hurried home from work, their feet sliding on sodden leaves and their umbrellas folding and unfolding like time-lapsed dark flowers.

Mickey Corbett noticed none of it. As with the previous ten days, he'd spent all of this one at the computer, checking in at regular intervals to jennyswritingcomp.com. It was nearly dark when he opened it for the last time, and his eyes were red with strain. But when he read the new entry, his body lurched with excitement.

Competition Results:

First Prize: Michael Corbett, Dublin

Underneath were instructions on how to claim the prizes, and in a daze Mickey followed them. When he'd finished, he swallowed the chill remains of his coffee and went straight to his message box. To his delight there was already one new one:

Congratulations Michael! To claim your prize, please go to Thirty-Two, St. Michael's Way, Dublin 4. Seven-thirty on Friday. And please keep it to yourself - we don't want a crowd! Congratulations again, and see you Friday. Jenny.

Four days later, Mickey was walking along St. Michael's Way and gazing up at the tall Georgian houses. Finding number Thirty-two, he'd barely taken his finger from the bell when the door swung open, and he stepped back in surprise. Standing there was the girl from the internet, but the image had not been nearly generous enough. The black dress was gone, and in its place was a scarlet affair. It was shorter and even tighter, and it was easy to tell there wasn't much underneath. His eyes flickered up to her face. She wore little make-up, and definitely had no need of it. Her small, straight nose sat exquisitely between two enormous brown eyes and a pair of the fullest naturally-red lips he'd ever seen. Her smile was open and inviting, and Mickey swallowed and held out his hand.

'I'm Mickey,' he said. 'Michael Corbett, that is. And you must be Jenny?'

'I am,' she said, her voice low and warm. Taking his hand, she pulled him gently over the threshold. 'Come inside, Mickey, it's freezing out there.'

He followed her into the house, and she lead him to a large, dimly-lit dining room. The table was already laid, a tall candle beside each plate. A log fire roared in the marble fireplace, and a woman singer's bluesy voice purred out from somewhere.

'Let me take your jacket,' Jenny said, indicating a chair. Pouring red wine for them both, she sat down opposite him and lifted her glass.

'Well. Here's to the winner! Cheers Mickey Corbett.'

'Cheers,' he said, and tried a sip of the red liquid. It tasted rich, if a little peppery. 'This is very good.' He took another, longer swallow.

'Ah,' she said, waving the compliment away. 'I don't know a thing about wine. I just buy expensive stuff and hope it's all right.'

She's nice as well as beautiful, thought Mickey. Definitely a first prize.

'Now,' Jenny began, setting down her glass and examining him. 'I want you to tell me the truth, Mickey. Did you think I was running a scam?'

Mickey hesitated. 'Well ' not really. But you have to admit it's a bit unusual,' he said. 'Have you always been in the business? I mean, have you had work published yourself? You obviously have an interest.'

'I have,' she said. 'But I have other interests too. I'll tell you more about them later. Right now, I think the dinner must be ready. Excuse me.'

Watching her rear-end twitch through the doorway, Mickey loosened his tie and let out a long breath. Pushing back his chair, he got up and wandered around the room. Several framed paintings hung on the walls, and he noticed that they were nearly all African big-game hunting scenes; old-fashioned depictions of moustachioed white men holding long guns and standing in triumphant poses, one foot placed on the back of a dead lion or buffalo. Groups of natives stood in the background, some grinning, some serious. The low light in the room almost hid the high black beams, but he could tell that they held a variety of ornate guns, swords and other weapons. Turning to the fireplace, he saw a photograph hanging above the mantelpiece and moved closer to examine it. It was a collage made from snaps of several men. They were all young looking, held identical rolls of paper in their hands and were smiling cheerfully at the camera.

Hearing a noise, he turned to see Jenny approaching with two steaming plates and got back to the table in time to take one from her.

'So ' do you like my collection?' she asked him.

'I ... yes I do. I must say it's a bit surprising though, for a woman. Does it belong to your husband?'

'Yes, it does. Or did. He died, eight years ago.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I'm not. He was a pig. Long story Mickey, I won't bore you with it. Suffice it to say, I kept all his stuff. Don't really know why,' she added, slicing a piece of meat and putting it in her mouth. 'Mmm, this is good. Eat away Mickey, it'll get cold.'

Mickey cut a piece of his own and chewed on it.

'It is good. Is it pork?'

'Wild boar, actually. Hope you like it.'

'Wow, wild boar. That's a first for me. Well, it's excellent.'

'Thanks. I marinate it for two days - it's my own recipe. Have some more wine.'

'Thanks.' The two ate in silence, and when he'd finished, Mickey pushed his plate away.

'That was amazing,' he said. 'You're a really good cook.'

'Thanking you,' Jenny said, with a little bow. 'And now for dessert.'

'Oh, let me help you ...' Mickey began, but she shook her head.

'A deal's a deal. You won my competition fair and square.' Mickey shrugged and gave in. Later, when he'd licked the last of an exquisite chocolate sauce from his spoon, he sat back and sighed.

'Thanks a lot, Jenny. I won't forget this.'

'When you're rich and famous?'

He looked at her to see if she was teasing him, but she seemed serious. 'I doubt that'll happen,' he said, glancing over at the dying fire. He realized suddenly that he felt really good. Not only full and satisfied from the meal, but happier and more relaxed than he'd been for ages. And the night was still young.

'At least let me put another log on your fire,' he said, and not waiting for an answer, stood up and walked over to the fireplace. He placed a log carefully on to the glowing embers and stood back. The faces in the collage over the mantel were grinning inanely down at him and, frowning back at them, he decided that some of them looked familiar.

'Who are the lads in the picture, then?' he asked her.

'Can't you guess?' Jenny said, coming over to him. 'Previous winners of course. I have your diploma here too.' There was a small chest beside the fireplace, and she reached into a drawer. Presenting him with the rolled paper, she took a digital camera from the same drawer.

'In front of the fire, please,' she ordered him. Mickey stepped over obediently, feeling a little foolish.

'Now,' she said, 'say "Gorgonzola".' He smiled as she clicked the button.

'Lovely. Now, sit down here on the couch and relax. Here, let me take your tie off - you must be choking in that thing.'

'No, I'm ... fine,' he protested. She ignored him, and as she fumbled with the knot, the back of her fingers touched his neck and a delicate breeze of perfume filled his nostrils. 'B ... but I will sit down. To be honest, I feel a bit woozy.'

'That'll be the wine,' Jenny told him. 'I should have warned you, it's quite strong.'

As Mickey sank back in the soft couch, his felt his head began to spin. Oh Jesus, Mickey, don't get sick, he told himself. Not tonight. He watched Jenny trot off and return with two large glasses.

'Here, this will settle you. It's a good brandy, I think.'

He accepted the glass, and took a sip. As she sat down beside him, he turned to look at her. She was sitting sideways, one arm draped along the back of the sofa. A loop of hair had fallen casually across one pale cheek, and she was smiling again. He saw that the red dress was twisted, the contents of its bodice seeming poised to spring free.

'Don't be afraid of me, Mickey,' she whispered. 'I won't bite.'

Trembling, he lowered his glass to the floor, reached out a hand to her face and touched her warm flesh with his fingertips. In a moment she had drawn him to her, and they were kissing, deep and long. He moved his hand down her shoulder, taking the strap with it, and when her right breast broke free he cupped its hot softness. Gently, she undid the buttons on his shirt, then slid her hand down to his belt.

Suddenly, to his horror, Mickey felt his head begin to swim again. But when he tried to speak, nothing would come out. He wanted to lift his hand and touch her, to warn her that he was unwell, but it felt like lead and refused to move at his command.

Jenny broke away and leaned back, examining him. And it was then, as her smile returned, that Mickey guessed the truth: he'd been drugged! But why? As he struggled to make sense of it all, his eyes caught a hint of something else in her face. It was ... triumph, he thought. Just like the look of a big cat after a successful hunt. He stared over at the paintings; the mighty White Hunter, his foot resting on the limp body of the buffalo.

'Good boy,' he heard Jenny say, her voice distant and muffled. 'How do we feel now, Mickey? You should be able to speak, if you try hard. I'm afraid that's about all you will be able to do.'

Mickey wrenched his eyes towards the fireplace and with an effort focused on the photograph above it again. It was then that something unlocked in his mind. The TV, he thought dully. That's where I've seen those people. Missing persons. As the room began to spin again, he looked back at the girl. Her face had turned ghostly in the soft, grey mist that was filling the space between them, but he could tell that her smile was wider now and that she was nodding encouragingly. He worked his mouth hard, fighting for breath and saliva, and finally managed a whispering croak.

'Not ... wild ... boar,' he said, and Jenny grinned delightedly at him.

'Good boy!' she said. 'Good boy!'