NO TROPHY - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

‘We’ll settle this on the squash court.’

 

‘Or we could just have a fist-fight and get it over with.’

 

‘Whatever you like, mate.’

 

‘I’m no longer your mate.  Not after stealing my girlfriend.’

 

‘Oh, dry your eyes.  I didn’t steal her.  She chose me.’

 

'We’re wasting time.  Squash court or fight.'

 

Vince tossed a coin three times.  John called heads twice.

 

‘Squash court it is, then.’

 

Next morning, they both turned up at the sports centre, along with Sandra, the tug-of-war girlfriend.  In a rare moment of unity, John and Vince persuaded her to come along.  She was uncomfortable but, in an effort to keep a modicum of peace, she agreed.

 

She sat at a table outside with a view of the court through a glass partition.  It was a sunny day, so the table umbrella was up.  Inside was far from sunny, a mixture of thunderous looks and red mist.

 

They played hard and fast, getting each other’s measure.

 

After half an hour, they looked exhausted as they battled to out-macho each other.  They knew Sandra was watching.  At first, she liked the idea of two blokes scrapping over her but gradually, watching these sweaty men, she felt her stomach churn as she realised they saw her as some kind of prize, a trophy.

 

At the end of the game, there was a winner and a loser.  The loser broke his racquet against a wall and stormed off the court.  The big-toothy-smile-winner walked over to the glass partition, raising his arms in triumph and then blowing a kiss.  Sandra did not react.  The winner shrugged his shoulders and left the court.

 

Soon John and Vince emerged and walked over to Sandra’s table.

 

‘Neither of you say anything, not a word.’

 

The men exchanged glances.

 

‘I’ve been sitting here for over an hour watching you too little kids, feeling I’m between a rock and a hard place, waiting anxiously to see which one of you would come out on top and claim me as their prize.  Me?  A prize?  And, do you know what?  I couldn’t care less about your rivalry and I’ve decided there is only one winner here today – me.  I am disgusted by you two balloon-heads.  In the last hour, I’ve made a decision that frees me to live my life on my terms.’

 

John and Vince attempted to speak.

 

‘Not a word from either of you.  Whatever went on between us, it’s over.  For good.  I’m a young woman with feelings, not a trophy.  What was I thinking coming to this pantomime today?  But then, watching the two of you slug it out on the court, I thought we were back in the Stone Age.  Get lost the pair of you.’

 

Sandra stood up, gave each one a glare, then walked away.

 

John and Vince stared at each other in disbelief.

 

‘What just happened?’

 

‘Dunno.  Can’t work out which one of us is to blame.’

 

‘We settled something on the court, alright.’

 

“Yeah, we’re both idiots.’

INCIDENT - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

She had fought against it for so long. It was time. For almost a year, her life had been enveloped in gloom, ever-present because of the incident. 

The incident. What an insipid term. It was a crime, but she chose not to report it. In fact, she decided not to tell anyone about it, hoping that over time, memories would fade and nightmares would stop. She reckoned that if she had told the police, or her family or friends, any investigation or discussion would have been unbearable. 

In the weeks after it happened, she came close to ending her life. She even stockpiled pills and kept them in a bedside drawer. 

One miserable day when the wind was howling outside and heavy rain was drumming the windows, she became so depressed that she sat on the bed, opened the drawer and arranged half a dozen little bottles in a neat row. But she couldn’t do it. After reliving what happened for the umpteenth time, she sobbed, lay back and calmed herself. The bottles were returned to the drawer for another time. One day, her shame might just push her over the edge. 

In the shower, she had been rough with herself ever since that day. The first shower after it happened, she scrubbed for an hour, using up a full container of gel. Her body was a mess of redness and scratches but she still never felt completely clean. Every shower after that was a long process to cleanse not only the skin but her head of any guilt. She would spend a few minutes looking at herself in the mirror, chanting the mantra: “You’re not to blame. You’re not to blame”. It didn’t work. Her conscience was a long way from being clear. A year of self-reproach, of reliving the whole grubby episode. 

But now, it was time. She had fought against it for too long.

It was a street of expensive terraced houses, each with an entrance three steps up from the pavement. Number thirty-six looked immaculate, the solid front door distinctive in flawless red gloss paint. It stuck in her memory. It was a door into hell. 

That night she had been tipsy. She was convinced that something had been added to her drinks. There was a taxi, a slip on the second step, a fit of giggles as she was helped into the house. And then the struggle as this man, only an hour before a stranger, hugged and kissed her. Her struggle led to two slaps across the face sending her reeling against a wall before she fell to the floor. And then it happened. And it went on and on. She was powerless. She gave in. 

When it was over, she was dumped in the street, left to find her own way home. 

Violated. Humiliated. Ashamed.

*

She pressed the doorbell and waited. She heard footsteps and a door chain being released.  The door opened slowly. 

The two police officers beside her smiled reassuringly.

 

EXIT STRATEGY - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

She stood out from the crowd because of her dazzling white blazer. But that was a secondary reason, she stood out because of the bloodstain on her sleeve. As more and more people noticed her state, a circle of onlookers began to grow around her. A man asked if she was okay, if she needed help. Semi-dazed, she shook her head. She spotted a policeman approaching and broke into a run. The policeman began to run too. 

The railway station concourse was busy, offering plenty of opportunities to lose a tail or find a place to hide. The blood stain made things difficult. She must have looked like a mad woman but she had to get away. She needed time to gather her thoughts, to think things through before talking to anyone. Somebody would find her bag and discover her name and address. She remembered some blood on the outside of the bag. It wouldn’t be long. She had to get away. An exit door slid open and she ran into the street, pausing to look left and right, trying to decide on the best option. Passers-by were either too engrossed in their gadgets or oblivious, thanks to headphones, to notice this unusual sight but a young man stopped her. 

He looked at the stained sleeve and then into her eyes. He said nothing. She said nothing. Then he hugged her. He took off his leather jerkin and helped her put it on over her blazer. 

The policeman emerged through the side exit door and looked up and down the street but there was no sign of a girl with a bloody sleeve. He looked at the passers-by. Nothing obvious. He looked at the young couple hugging each other before one of them caught a train. He thought the young woman must have been boiling in her thick jacket on this humid morning, but that was not important at that moment. He stroked his chin and went back inside the station, talking on his radio. The young couple started walking down the street, increasing speed gradually until they were far away from the station. 

In a café, the young woman held a coffee mug in both hands and sipped infrequently. The young man kept looking at her but her eyes were gazing down at the table top. After a few minutes, she put down the mug and looked up. "She’s dead. I did it the way you told me. She’s gone.  But I left my bag behind. I panicked. My address and everything is in it. How stupid. I just panicked. Help me."

The young man stood up. “It’s a pity,” he said. “We would have had a great life. But I knew I’d need a back-up plan. I have to get to the airport. I have a flight booked.” 

She looked at him hopefully. 

He pursed his lips, looked her straight in the eyes and said: 

"One ticket."

A MEMORABLE DINNER - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

Four elderly men were seated at a table in a private dining room.  They had been club members for fifty years.  They were to be sentenced the next day for their involvement in a financial scandal.  This was their last dinner together before going to prison, and they wanted to make it a memorable occasion. 

The menu had been carefully planned. 

Geoffrey ordered butter-roasted lobster bisque with prawn and tarragon stuffed tortellini and lightly-steamed rock samphire, his wine a Portuguese white.

Alan chose confit rabbit and pistachio ballotine, cider-braised carrots, sherry-pickled onions and toasted pumpernickel.  He drank Italian rosé.

Angus went for slow-braised shoulder of wild Highland red deer and Scottish mushroom pie, celeriac puree and garden peas.  His wine of choice was claret.

William ordered Welsh rarebit with cave-aged cheddar and Worcester sauce, and four-times-cooked chips.  He drank pale ale.

They talked about the good old days and their successes, their wealth, their disdain for the lower classes, scroungers and the degeneration of society. They used strong words for manifesto-shredding, weasel politicians, and the whistle-blower. They pontificated and laughed, gorged their food and drank copious amounts.

After they finished their meals, two waiters cleared the table.  One of the waiters handed Geoffrey a briefcase, then left the room. The four men heard the door lock clunk. 

Geoffrey opened the briefcase and handed a revolver to each man.  They nodded to each other but nothing more was said.  

Geoffrey counted to three with his fingers and each man pressed their guns to their temples.  Once more, Geoffrey counted to three.  

On the third raised finger, four shots echoed around the room in unison.