Sophie Morgan (Book 1): Relative Strangers (A Modern Vampire Story)

by Treharne, Helen

  Of course, I did miss home and on occasion felt quite lonely, but Bethesda was only a couple of hours away in the car. I usually visited every few weeks, driving back to my Mum's house on a Friday evening and returning after lunch on a Sunday.

  On the weekends that I stayed in Coventry, I'd take the short walk to the shops, pick up a newspaper and have breakfast at Maxim's. I'd often try my hand at the crossword if I had time. It felt very cosmopolitan. Sometimes I'd go there for a few drinks in the evening with a friend. I preferred it to most of the larger and noisier bars in the city centre.

  It was the Friday of the August bank holiday, and I awoke to find two amber eyes studying me and a rough pink tongue about to dart out and lick my eyeball. A charming way to wake up! But this was the way many mornings commenced - with an impatient cat marching around my sleeping body, insisting that I get up and feed him.

  "Charlie!" I yelled, trying to sound cross, but failing to hide the grin on my face. The bundle of ginger and white fur continued to sit on my chest. He was cute but heavy. I haven’t been able to say no to Charlie since the day he turned up looking forlorn and grubby in the garden of my student digs. I’d coaxed him out from behind the shed with a tin of tuna and we’ve never looked back since. He moved in and never left.

  Once he had established I was awake, he leapt from the bed and plodded along the short hallway in the direction of the kitchen.

  Despite my rude awakening, very little could have put me in a bad mood that day. It was the first day of more than a week off work and I was starting it by heading off to Belgium for a long weekend with my friend and colleague, Tracy.

  Tracy was a relatively new friend for me, one of only a handful that I’d made since my student days. She was five years older than me and I’d met her through work. She had recently joined the company, having been made redundant by a rival firm and, despite being polar opposites we’d got on surprisingly well. She had formerly been a landlady for a local brewery but had given it up for better hours and a home of her own. Tracy loved shoes, handbags, shopping and men. I enjoyed reading, jeans and my Sky Planner.

  It was an unlikely pairing, but it actually seemed to work. I prevented her from spending all her pay on ridiculous clothing that she’d bore of in a month, she encouraged me to get out a bit more and let my hair down. In the short time that I’d known Tracy we’d developed quite a bond, albeit in its infancy.

  The few weeks on the run up to the trip had been tough on me. Jason, a guy I had been dating, had dumped me most unceremoniously by voicemail. I don't want you to think he left a message for me on my answer machine. No, no, that would have been kind by comparison. He recorded an outgoing voicemail to say if the caller was me "it's best we just call it a day, sorry." The two months we'd had together had been the only real relationship I'd had and I was shocked, humiliated, gutted.

  I had thought that everything with Jason was hunky-dory, but apparently not. I had no close male friends to canvass their perspective on the situation, or to give me the inside scoop on the male mind. My grandfather was dead and I'd never even met my father. All I knew was that he knocked my mother up on a school trip to Denmark during her A Levels. She scraped through her exams and got me rather than a degree. Some educational exchange that turned out to be!

  Tracy had been the only person I had told about my humiliation. Her tirade of expletives during our working breakfast was, on reflection, hysterically funny. She called him every name under the sun and a few others I hadn't even heard of; it's entirely possible that she even made some new words up.

  She also told me that what I needed was a good night out on the town to take my mind off it. There was also a reference to "the only way to get over a man is to get under a new one," but I decided to ignore that part. Before I knew it, I’d agreed to be at her house in a taxi at 8 o’clock.

  We were midway through our fifth round of drinks when Tracy declared that a holiday was what we both really needed. "Girls on tour," she screeched in the ladies' restroom, swinging the cubicle door open and practically taking it off its hinges in the process.

  "Huh?" I grunted, trying to focus through the inebriated haze. Despite being able to put away a hefty bit of alcohol in my student days, I had definitely lost the knack. Now I just felt hot, sticky and generally grim. God, I hate nightclubs, I really do.

  "We should go away Soph," she announced, her eyes lighting up, "It would be so cool, just what you need."

  Tracy slapped me on the back with delight, spilling her alco-pop over me in the process. She sang "here we go, here we go, here we go," as she fell through the exit into the crowded bar.

  The following day, we headed into the travel agent on the high street and initiated plans for a trip to Belgium. We wanted to go on a bank holiday weekend as it meant we only needed to take Friday off work, which our manager didn't mind so much. I was going to take the following week off work as well as I had plenty of holiday days left. If I didn't use them, I'd lose them.

  I admit that Belgium probably isn’t top of many people’s hit list of vacation destinations. Tracy had recently watched the film ‘In Bruges’. It looked similar – pretty. The travel agent agreed and got a us good deal on package. We’d fly to Brussels then get a train onwards. Tracy said that wasn’t a problem. She’d spent a summer inter-railing with an old boyfriend, so she was confident that we’d be able to figure it out. I made a mental note to quiz Tracy more on her colourful past when we were on our holiday. Because we got on so well, it was easy to forget that I hadn’t known her very long and it was becoming increasingly apparent that there was a lot to discover. This getaway could turn out to be quite an eye opener, I thought to myself.

  Following Charlie’s unhygienic way of waking me up, I slipped out of bed, plodded along to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and popped two slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster. It was earlier than I usually got up, which was saying something, but as the sun was already shining, I didn’t mind too much. I love that feeling just after dawn on a summer's day, when everything seems bright and clean, and you've forgotten that you've got up at a pretty ungodly hour. The sun becomes nature's own alarm clock.

  While the toaster took the mandatory three minutes to crisp the bread, I popped an Earl Grey tea bag into my favourite "I Love Wales" mug. I refilled Charlie’s water dish and gave the kitchen counters a quick wipe down with a damp cloth. I really should have cleaned up properly last night, I thought to myself. It wasn’t like me at all.

  My morning routine had practically become an art form. Just as the toast shot out of the machine, the kettle gurgled and came to a swift halt. In a matter of moments I was chowing down on buttery toast, and being hydrated by the infusion of black tea and bergamot. As I crashed onto the sofa and caught up with the world events, courtesy of one the twenty-four hour news channels, I text the cat sitter to confirm my flight details so they could check when I landed and would know when to expect me. If they thought I'd be back late, they'd make sure they scheduled another visit to save me panicking about Charlie. They were very good like that.

  One of the downsides of living away from home was a lack of on-tap, cat sitters if you want to go anywhere, but I’d found a great guy who ran a small dog walking service with his girlfriend and mother. One of them was always available and happy to come in and feed Charlie whenever I was away. He didn’t cost much and I liked the way that he always watered the plants and left a pint of milk in the fridge for me. I also harboured a sneaking suspicion that one of them vacuumed the carpets too..

  As the selection of three C list celebrities sat on an uncomfortable looking sofa dissecting the day’s newspapers, I finished off my toast and the dregs of my brew. I remained transfixed for about an hour, occupied by both the news and an unusual new hairstyle that one of the female presenters appeared to be trying out. I broke my concentration twice to make two more mugs of tea and refill the cat food in the now empty dish.

  I eventually pulled myself together and set about get
ting myself washed and groomed for the day to come. My beauty regime had scarcely changed since I was sixteen. Whether it was a work day or preparations for a night on the town, the routine was nearly identical. Despite my attempts to pull off an assortment of makeup "looks" over the years, it never seemed to look quite right, always like I was trying too hard. It had been the same with hairstyles as well, inevitably ending up with leaving my hair shoulder length and pretty boring. A quick application of tinted moisturizer, a swish of mascara and a dab of lip gloss and I was ready to go.

  "Looking good, Ms Morgan," I told myself in the mirror, as I picked up my bag and headed out the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  It took less than an hour to pick Tracy up from her place and get to the airport, less again to check in and get through security and across the terminal. We had missed the early rush of business travellers heading to Brussels and were fortunate enough to get through check in before the massive onslaught of other holiday travellers got to the queues. We had just enough time to pick up a magazine and coffee before we were being ushered onto the plane. The flight and train journey was straightforward, as promised by both the travel agent and Tracy. Once we pulled into Antwerp station we quickly got into a taxi, checked in at our budget hotel and headed back out.

  We had previously agreed that this was to be a leisurely break without any particular itinerary, so our first day was primarily spent aimlessly wandering the streets, browsing in shop windows and occasionally stopping for a coffee or a small beer. It was refreshing to not have to be anywhere or tied to any timetable and as we weaved our way in and out of the side streets, I made a mental note to worry less about work and have more fun. I’d had such a pleasant time that I’d more or less forgotten about Jason and had hardly checked my mobile phone for messages from him.

  Tracy had expressed an interest in taking a walk into the diamond district, hoping to buy herself something new and sparkly, which we did after having a light lunch at a small cafe en route. She tried to encourage me to make a purchase, but I had set a budget for myself for "treats" and there was nothing that met my rather strict criteria.

  The walking had tired us both out and to fuel us for the evening ahead, we picked a restaurant close to our hotel for our dinner. Over a meal of mussels in white wine, with parsley and bread, we discussed our plans for the night. We decided upon an Irish bar which we had seen, O’ Malley's, which was tucked away just off the Great Market and only a short walk from our hotel. Although we hadn’t gone into the premises in daylight, it appeared to have been recently refurbished compared to the adjacent bars. An A -frame board outside advertised live bands, and that night’s offering was going to be a soloist, Kieran Murray.

  After briefly returning to our hotel to freshen up and quickly change our clothes, we headed out for the evening. I wore my trademark blue jeans, accompanied by a fitted black tee shirt with a small diamond design on the chest; Tracy wore smart black trousers with a silky pale lilac top and snake skin effect boots.

  I slipped my leather jacket over my top although the evening air was mild and despite Tracy insisting that it was far too warm for me to need it. I’d had it a couple of years and I loved it. It was from a seventies vintage clothing which I’d stumbled across on a day trip to London and was well worn by the time it came to me. But the structured, yet soft, leather hugged my skin and made me feel less self- conscious; the top I had packed was a little more fitted than I’d anticipated and I didn’t like the feeling of being "on show". That should teach me for buying things without trying them on first.

  As soon as we entered the bar, I could see that Tracy was in her element. The place was rammed, although I felt a little relieved that we weren’t walking into an empty bar with all eyes shifting straight to us. People were pressed shoulder to shoulder on the bench-style seating fixed to each wall, legs and arms brushing each other. The queue for the bar was three people deep and patrons were squashed into every space in between. I could hardly see the floor and had to watch my footing with every step.

  It quickly became obvious what the draw was. A couple of feet beyond the moving mass of people, I could just spot the top of someone’s head. As we cajoled and weaved our way through the throng, I saw a small stage area, probably no more than ten feet wide by six feet deep, which was home to a bar stool, a microphone, and a guy with an acoustic guitar. He was belting out a pretty decent performance of "The Irish Rover" while the crowd sang along, clapping and stomping their feet in time with the music.

  Tracy turned to me, her face lighting up as she spoke. "Now this is my kind of place", she grinned, gesturing with her thumb towards the entertainment, she added, "and he is hot".

  "I expect he is", I replied, "he’s wearing an Arran sweater and it’s close to thirty degrees outside."

  Tracy shot me an incredulous look, grabbed my hand and lurched forward in the direction of the bar. I tottered as she pulled me through the crowd and I could swear that the guitarist smirked. Between the ground I covered in my stumble and Tracy’s determination to get a drink, we somehow found ourselves at the front of the queue at the bar.

  At some point in our expedition across the room, she'd managed to push me in front of her. I asked her what she wanted.

  "When in Rome" she instructed.

  "What?" I asked, bemused.

  She pointed at the tricolour flag hanging above the optics. "Guinness! You should have one too – keep your strength up!"

  I was feeling worried. I’d learned from my nights out with Tracy that her idea of a good evening, usually involved a lot of drink, dancing and very often flirting with whichever good looking guy that took her fancy. It wasn’t that she ever did anything you could be ashamed of or embarrassed about exactly, but it could certainly get exhausting. She didn’t answer my question as she’d already turned on her heel and was heading back through the crowd in the direction of the toilets.

  As the pub was packed, thereby discouraging any more customers to come in, I found that the bar itself gradually became quieter. People received their orders and returned to their seats once they were served. Others who weren’t lucky enough to have a seat had to satisfy themselves with whatever small square of free space they could find.

  Although there were still a few people waiting to be served, I managed to catch the eye of the barman. I mouthed the words ‘two Guinness please’, raised two digits in the air and pointed them in the direction of the appropriate pump. He responded with a wink and a nod of acknowledgement.

  I found myself smiling as I slid myself onto one of the tall vacant bar stools. It beat most city centre nights out, which usually involved waiting twenty minutes to get served, followed by someone spilling a drink over me.

  While my Guinness was poured and set to rest for a couple of minutes, the barman proceeded to take other orders and I wondered where Tracy had disappeared to. She seemed to be taking a long time for a toilet break and I wasn’t relishing the thought of having to give up my bar stool to go and look for her.

  My eyes scanned the stomping mass of people on the pub floor, eventually locking onto Tracy’s brunette head bobbing up and down at the front of the crowd. I occasionally caught a flash of her face as people moved around her. She looked in her element. I hoped that she had made it to the lavatory before she started all that jumping up and down. Mopping up the dance floor was not my idea of a good time.

  I turned back towards the bar to see the barman standing opposite me, wiping down the bar with a towel and following my gaze in the direction of my friend. I looked down to see two large glasses of Guinness in front of me.

  "Don’t tell me she’s abandoned you so soon?" he asked.

  "Oh yeah", I muttered, shrugging my shoulders. "She’s just having fun."

  "And you’re not? That hurts". He clutched the damp bar towel to his chest. "Words can cut like a knife you know".

  He was smiling and I involuntarily smiled back. I wasn’t sure if this was part of some cheeky chap routine he put on f
or female customers, but he seemed genuine enough and clearly didn’t think too much of himself given his unkempt hair and aged band tee shirt. I knew it was Led Zeppelin; I'd grown up on my mother's record collection. He had good taste in music and an appealing face, in a non-conventional "Rory Gallagher meets Joaquin Phoenix" sort of a way.

  "What can I say? I was miserable and then you came along", I replied, trying to wear what I hoped was an easy going smile. Was I flirting? Maybe I was, I wasn’t entirely sure, but whatever I was doing, I quite liked it, especially behind the safety of the bar counter and the knowledge that he was still on the clock. Nice, safe, flirting; just what you need on the rebound.

  He wiped his hands off on a towel and dropped in onto the counter at the rear of the bar. "Michael Kelly, County Derry", he remarked cheerfully, his hand still outstretched. "My friends call me Mickey".

  "Hey Mickey – what a pity you don’t understand". I cringed at the cheesy eighties pop reference. Sure, like he’s never heard that before. Getting over my embarrassment, I reciprocated the gesture and we shook hands.

  "Sophie Morgan", I said. "People just call me Sophie."

  We stayed shaking hands to the point it became comical, eventually stopping when a younger lad came up to Mickey from around the front of the bar. He had a tower of stacked glasses cradled in one hand and several bottles precariously trapped between the fingers of his other. He looked around eighteen, was a little taller than Mickey, and had a flame of red hair, which looked like it hadn’t seen the inside of a proper hair salon in a while.

  Once he'd placed the bottles in a bin behind the bar and placed the glasses in the sink, Mickey picked up one of the pints of Guinness and handed it to him. I was about to protest when he asked him to take it over to the "overdressed brunette at the front" of the crowd. It wasn’t a judgement about Tracy, merely an observation of her appearance compared to the rest of the casually attired gathering.