www.morpheustales.com Mousetrap By Oscar Windsor-Smith “What would you give to be slim?” said the flyer offering a free package of pioneering therapy in return for taking part in a clinical trial – transport from London to Bratislava included. What would I give? At that moment my right arm seemed like fair exchange. Sometimes I wish I’d done the manly thing and recycled that promotional flyer with all the other junk mail. I know I would have too, if only my previous night’s date hadn’t reached new heights of embarrassment. ### The introduction agency had given their customary precautions about first meetings so I’d suggested Tony’s Bistro. God knows why. Tony’s had been the setting for so many of my previous dating fiascos. My date arrived on time: Leslie, a slim, well-built blonde. It appeared that she had told the truth about her age, but as she soon pointed out, mine was not as advertised. Nor was my physique. Her eyes registered disgust at my bulk, but that was before she had scanned the menu. Tony’s excellent menu was usually one point in my favour with dates, an indicator of refined tastes. Regrettably, it was also a significant factor in my weight problem. “I don’t suppose Simon Faulkner is your real name," said Leslie with a cynical grin, “or that you really are an investigative journalist?” I assured her that both those statements were true and displayed my NUJ card as proof before regaling her with the day-to-day workings of computerized journalism. She nodded from time to time and occasionally made polite ‘Mm?’ sounds. It was only when I mentioned one of my ongoing enquiries that she become animated. “So Professor Bond and his research partner disappeared?” “Indeed,” I said, choosing brevity to extend this seam of conversational gold. “Five years, and you’ve discovered no more information?” “Only rumours.” “Rumours?” “About unauthorized experiments.” “At the Institute for Genomic Solutions?” she said, and then bit her lip, colour rising. “I didn’t mention IGO,” I said. “You don’t sound like a hairdresser, Leslie. What do you really do?” Leslie, if that was indeed her name, raised a hand in apology. She took a sip of wine and said, “I make enquiries too, a sort of headhunter.” “Is this evening business or pleasure?” “Let’s call it social. I must have heard something about this Professor Bond, in the news I think. It seemed like an intriguing case, that’s all.” Still full of vain hope and eager hormones, I took her at her word. “They were doing groundbreaking research,” I said. The waiter cleared our plates and offered us the dessert menu. “Do you know in which field?” “David Bond is a geneticist. His research partner Christine Sullivan is an authority on parasitic nematodes.” Leslie scanned the menu. “Nematodes?” I flicked to an illustrated page on my iPhone. “Worms,” I said. “The kind that lay their eggs in living hosts to feed their offspring.” Leslie had lost her appetite it seemed. She stood, eyeing me critically. “Such a shame,” she sighed. “You might be an attractive man, Simon, if only you could lose all that blubber.” With that she left.
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