Young Writers Society

This isn't quite finished and, as the competition closes tomorrow, I doubt it will be done in time for me to enter but for two days work I think it's looking pretty good. I'll edit this post as I write more and maybe, just maybe I can reach the end in time. Tell me what you think...

*Edit* Now complete... sort of.

This story begins one dark, dismal night when a distraught, disheveled woman hurriedly knocks upon a stout, wooden door. She does not pause to wait for a response but knocks again; twice, thrice and finally the door is opened and in she stumbles. Her eyes take a moment to acquaint themselves with the bright, bold flame of a candle but, once she can see, she is delighted to find a man peering out at her from under a brown mop of hair.

“Would you be Mr. Peterson?” The woman asks, taking in the rest of his appearance. The man is tall, but not terribly so, with soulful brown eyes and a smooth complexion. He is currently wearing blue striped pyjamas.

“That’s right,” Mr. Peterson replies in a loud, cheerful voice, shifting the candle to his left hand so he can scratch his nose.

“Detective Peterson?” The woman prompts eagerly even though she already knows this to be true. They have met before but her companion does not seem to remember this.

“Oh no. I gave that up a long time ago,” Mr. Peterson replies in a good natured, accepting tone as if he were woken up every night by beautiful, half dressed women who needed his help.

“But I need a detective,” The woman says, stepping further into the room. She eyes the candle with interest and amusement before switching on a light. Mr. Peterson scowls for just a moment and then shrugs, snuffing his candle out.

“Very well. Why not tell me your story over a cup of tea?” Mr. Peterson asks.

“I’d rather have hot chocolate,” His guest replies, closing the door behind her.

Seated in an eloquent living room, the woman pulls up the straps of her dress and smooths out the creases in her skirts. Next, she notices a small hand mirror placed on a little coffee table beside the leather armchair. How strange, whatever is it doing there? The woman shrugs and decides she might as well make use of it. She peers into the glass and scrutinizes her reflection. The woman is in her mid-twenties with long, crimson hair and deep, green eyes. Her mascara has run down a soft, ivory face with a button nose and full, dark lips. The woman tucks a few stray hairs behind her ears and dabs at the mascara with a handkerchief from her pocket but she soon gives up and returns both objects to their original positions. Then, with nothing else to do, she studies the painting above the fireplace. It appears to be a portrait of a young man. His fine physique is emphasised by tight fitting clothes and his high cheek bones outline the blue, enigmatic eyes.

“Contacts,” Mr. Peterson explains as he enters the room, “Can’t be doing with them now but wasn’t I a striking lad?”

“Uh….” The woman hesitates.

“Come now. Tell me your tale,” Mr. Peterson interrupts, moving the mirror so that he can place a tray with biscuits and two mugs down on the coffee table before seating himself opposite her.

“Very well,” The woman begins, “But where should I start?”

“A name is always helpful,” Mr .Peterson replies.

“I’m Michelle. Michelle Winters,” The woman says without hesitation. She has already worked out her story.

“Jack Peterson, pleased to meet you,” Mr. Peterson smiles warmly and reaches out to shake her hand.

_______________________________________

An hour passes and Mr. Peterson is pacing the room, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“So, will you help?” Michelle asks confidently.

“Well of course. What else can I do? Can’t send you back out there now can I?” Mr. Peterson muses and then turns to face her, his lips twitching into a grin.

“Oh, thank you, Jack,” Michelle exclaims.

“Mr. Peterson if you will. It sounds more official,”

“How about Detective Peterson?”

“Now that I like,” Mr. Peterson declares as he shrugs his shoulders into an old, tweed coat and grabs a pair of spectacles from the windowsill.

“Where to first?” Michelle queries, feeling much better now that she has Detective Peterson in her employ.

“To the scene of the crime, of course,” Mr. Peterson decides, opening the garage door. Michelle peers inside and gasps when Mr. Peterson wheels a motorcycle out. He pulls a helmet over his thick, nut-brown locks and then passes another to her. Michelle is not quite sure how she feels about this but Mr. Peterson shows her how to put it on and then helps her gather her dress so that she can sit on the back of the bike.

Jack gets the bike started and they fly around the corner, across the cobbled streets which glitter in the moonlight.

“Here, this is the right house,” Michelle indicates a small, terrace house with a pretty, picturesque garden, entombed by a neat, black fence. The motorbike splutters to a stop and Jack climbs off, holding out his hand to lift Michelle down. She smiles and obligingly intertwines her fingers with his before following him up to the house. At the door, Mr. Peterson hesitates.

“Should I unlock it?” Michelle asks, retrieving the key from her pocket.

“Not at all. Not at all. I must be first to enter,” Mr. Peterson decides and, taking the key from her, he twists it in the lock. The door opens onto a colourful hall. The carpet is crimson, the walls a pale rose and the doormat a deep vermilion. Mr. Peterson cringes at the carpet as he reaches for the light switch.

“You expect me to find traces of blood on that?” The ex-detective asks.

Michelle does not hear Mr. Peterson; her eyes and ears are occupied elsewhere. At the end of the hall, the form of a young man is sprawled across the floor, his ivory skin devoid of all colour and his cerulean eyes forever open. Black hair trails to his neck where two identical pin-pricks have pierced his skin.

“Most peculiar,” Jack muses, following her gaze. “You say you don’t know what killed him and yet it’s clear. That there’s a snake bite. No doubt about it.”

“I know,” Michelle sighs. “And that’s why I need your help. One of my Cobras is missing and if anyone finds out she’s gone, my license will be revoked.”

“You’re worried about a snake when there’s a body in your house?”Mr. Peterson demands.

“Look. What I said earlier is true. I have no idea who this man is. The only purpose his body serves is as a threat to me.”

“And you're not scared?”

“Not really. It isn't like he's the first. It's my Cobra I'm worried about,” Michelle admits.

“Not the first?” Mr. Peterson exclaims, backing towards the door.

“You said you’d help!” Michelle protests.

“It was a different case then.”

“Well then it’s your duty to see that Cleo doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“I’m no snake expert,” He disagrees.

“But I am so we can work together,” Beams Michelle.

In the end, Mr. Peterson decides to have a closer look at the body but can find no evidence there and, when he examines the snake’s vacant cage, he sees there are no fingerprints.

“Do you use gloves when handling your cobra?” Mr Peterson asks.

“Naturally,” Michelle replies.

“Is the young man wearing any?”

“I don’t think so…” Michelle hesitates and returns to the hall. Here she crouches beside the body. “Oh wow. He does have gloves on but that means he was handling Cleo, right?”

“Not necessarily, but it’s a possibility,” Mr. Peterson replies. “First we need to find out who he was and then we keep our ears open for any information concerning a cobra.”

“So you are going to help. Oh good. I was afraid I'd have to kill you for a moment.”

“Pardon?”

“Just a joke,” Michelle assured him with a smile.

“Right... Well I suppose we should get to work. You don't happen to have a computer?”

“Second door on the right. I'm guessing you need the Internet?”

“That's right.” Mr. Peterson enters the room and switches on the computer. As the screen loads, he pulls a small notebook and pencil from the pocket of his tweed jacket.

“Ah. Here we are. Police files,” Mr. Peterson smiles to himself as he clicks on the link and then uses a code program to search for their password.

_______________________________________

“Have you found anything?” Michelle enters the room. Mr. Peterson turns away from the screen and recoils.

“Take that thing out of here!” Mr. Peterson commands, his gaze transfixed on the Cobra that is currently coiled around Michelle's neck.

“Don't worry. This one's just a baby. Practically harmless. So what did you find?”

“I refuse to answer that until this room is snake free.” Michelle sighs and deposits the snake on the floor. Mr. Peterson springs to his feet. The snake eyes him with a curious flick of the tongue and then slithers through the door and down the hall.

“Are you crazy?” Mr. Peterson demands. “You have a snake loose in your house, a body in the hall and a cobra who could be eating desert right now!”

“Calm down. Now I kept my side of the bargain so why not fulfill yours and tell me what you've discovered?” Mr. Peterson reluctantly returns to his seat and checks his notes.

“A Mr. Taylor went missing two days ago. Do you recognise the name?”

“No. Should I?”

“He was your next door neighbour.”

“Really? How fascinating.”

“Have you never met your neighbour?”

“I don't believe so. He just moved in and I've been busy lately.”

“Well the picture matches the body but we can't eliminate him as a suspect just yet.”

“Okay. This is all very interesting but how do you plan on finding Cleo?”

“I'm not quite sure. Do you have any hunches on who's trying to scare you?”

“Probably my last client.”

“Client? What business are you in or dare I ask?”

“Murders mostly. I doubt Tony would try to steal Cleo though. She must have escaped when he was returning her to the cage.”

“Murders?”

“I'm a member of the secret police,” Michelle lies.

“And they can't help you?”

“I did a job on the side. My reputation is at risk here.”

“Fine. When you got home the door was...”

“Shut but not locked.”

“Any chance Cleo was still in the house at this stage?”

“Well I suppose so but that would mean she's still here now because I shut the door behind me while I inspected the body and then locked it when I came to seek you out.”

“You didn't think to search the house first? This cobra. Is there any antidote to the venom?”

“Not one you could get in time. I keep a small bottle in the kitchen but the venom paralyzes so there would be no time to retrieve it.”

“I think you should go get it,” Mr. Peterson insists. Michelle shrugs and leaves the room.

In the kitchen, Michelle smiles to herself as she locates the antidote and then a large, black bin bag. Then she hesitates for a moment before taking a second one and, sure enough, Mr. Peterson's screams can be heard from the next room.

“Oh well done, Jack. You've solved the case,” Michelle smirks as she watches Jack back away from the large cobra.

“Help me!” Mr. Peterson gasps.

“Foolish, foolish Jack. Did you really think I'd forget as quickly as you have?”

“Who are you woman? You killed that man didn't you, you set this whole thing up.”

“Oh very clever. You have got slow over the years Jack but Cleo can fix that,” Michelle laughs as Mr. Peterson launches various objects at the snake but Cleo does not falter.

“Who are you?” Mr. Peterson demands again, just as Cleo strikes, two twin daggers scraping his flesh. Michelle moves to stand over his immobile body.

“I'm the girl who's father you killed,” Michelle replies, placing the antidote mere centimeters from his outstretched hand. Then, she sits back to watch him die.