Sophie Morgan (Book 1): Relative Strangers (A Modern Vampire Story) (4 page)

While Mickey and Sean went about serving the waiting customers, I contented myself with reflecting on my day and enjoying the feeling of relaxation. The place reminded me in many ways of some of the pubs at home. There was a real mix of people, young and old, groups and couples. I’m not saying that Bethel didn’t have its fair share of rowdy bars and nightclubs. I was just more comfortable in the smaller ones of Bethesda, my hometown on its outskirts.Bethesda was technically part of Bethel, the "technically" part being something which residents liked to stress.

Midway through my first drink, I realised that the bar didn’t seem as crowded as the night before, which surprised me a little. Mickey explained that it was because another Irish bar a few streets away had a band on. The regulars would still turn up, but a few customers would probably have headed over there first, especially as Kieran was playing at O' Malley's both nights. He was a pretty talented guy, but his repertoire was limited and I could see why you wouldn’t necessarily want to hear him on successive nights. Mickey called it "paddy-oke", or Irish karaoke, which I wanted to laugh at, but thought it may not be politically correct, what with not being Irish myself.

The strum of a guitar signalled that the show was about to begin. I smiled over at Tracy, who was standing adoringly in front of the stage, despite there being plenty of seats available, including an empty stool by me.

"So then," Mickey asked, leaning over the bar, "Will we be having the pleasure of your company for the whole night, or is this a passing visit?"

"You’ll have me all night," I confirmed. Rephrasing I added, "I mean we won’t be going on to anywhere else, at least I don’t think. Of course, it’s up to Madam and what lover boy wants to do."

I gestured in the direction of the stage, and Mickey responded with a knowing look. He remarked that he’d seen that look on a girl before, well when they were with Kieran anyway, and there would be no way she’d be leaving while he was still knocking about the place. I was inclined to agree, even without the secret knowledge I had about the content of her handbag.

Kieran looked like he knew how to charm a lady and though genuine his actions may have been, I was pretty determined that he wasn’t going to take advantage of Tracy. I was going to keep her as sober as I could to make sure she didn’t make any mistakes. For a moment, I considered getting up and standing next to her, but I’m afraid fear of embarrassment took over. She was the only person on the ‘dance floor’ in front of the stage. I’d look like a spare part – one apparently employed to just carry her handbag.

Oh, what the hell, I thought, she’s a big girl and she deserves a break. As long as she can still think clearly, it’s up to her what she wants to do. Mickey must have read my mind when Tracy waved her hand at the bar to signal she wanted another drink; he poured her a Coke and got that sent over.

In between serving customers, Mickey and I resumed our conversations from the previous night. These were mostly centred on me, which made me a little uncomfortable, but as I’d managed to deflect many of these questions previously, I thought it only fair to share a bit more about myself. After all, it was unlikely that I was going to see him again after this short break – what did I have to lose? I thought it might be quite
pleasant
to bare my soul for once, hell to even just talk about me for a change. I spent the last couple of years at work listening to an endless line of people telling me about their problems, aspirations and dreams. Perhaps I should give it a go.

Michael's opening gambit was to ask me more about home, probably because he thought it would be a relatively safe topic of conversation. I described Bethesda to him, the village where I had grown up and where my mother still lived. It had originally been built between two roads, "top road" and "bottom road", only thirty or so houses, most of which were worker's cottages. After world war two, it had grown further with the construction of prefabricated houses and bungalows. Many steelworker families moved there for better living conditions and more space, commuting by train to the works in Bethel. Eventually, the volume private housing meant that Bethesda, like many outlying villages, had grown and was now technically part of Bethel. It was still a community in its own right with two good pubs, a former pub which was now an Indian restaurant, a Post Office, several churches and a convenience store. There was talk of a major supermarket opening a branch there too, although locals weren't euphoric about it.

"So, do you think you’ll ever move back home for good?" he ventured.

"Maybe", I shrugged my shoulders. "There’s plenty of reasons to go back, and fewer reasons to stay in Coventry. My Mum is at home, most of my friends too, although I don’t see them that much these days. My grandparents died a couple of years ago, and they would have wanted me to have my own life, but I have to admit, I really miss it sometimes."

"That’s tough, about your grandparents, mine are all gone too."

"Yeah, it was, and I still miss them. They were such a huge part of my life, especially growing up. When I was really little we all used to live together and it was great, I was spoiled rotten. Even when my Mum and I were on our own, we still had a house around the corner from them, so I used to see them all the time."

"I know what you mean. Most of my clan lives within a fifteen minute walk of each other. A few of the younger ones have moved a bit further afield over the years; a couple onto the mainland, but the older generation are all still there ruling the roost."

I laughed, "You make it sound like the mafia!"

"Don’t joke," he grinned. "I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of one of my aunties – it’s always the women you should watch, especially the short ones". He looked at me with a knowing smile. I'm only five foot three - well almost.

"Don’t you know it, I may be small, but I’m all muscle."

We both laughed, which lightened the mood. I could see why he was a good barman. Apart from the practical skills of serving people quickly, he engaged with people very well. It didn’t go unnoticed that Mickey hadn’t asked about my father, who was conspicuous by his absence. If he had enquired, I didn’t know what I would even say. His name wasn't even on my birth certificate. Talking to Mickey about it made me realise how bizarre it probably was to not know who your father is, weirder still for it not to bother you. I wasn’t sure whether I was just incredibly well adjusted or had deep psychological issues which had yet to rear their head.

Later on, the conversation moved on to Tracy and Kieran, favourite bands and who would win in a fight, Columbo or Quincy. Now and again Sean would come over and join in, giving us his take on why one band was better than the other. Even the occasional person waiting at the bar would share their insight. It went on like this for hours while the place slowly became busier and the floor space filled with a few more bodies.

Occasionally, I had to shuffle my stool in a bit tighter to the bar in order to allow people to pass or to get served. I wished I didn’t have to try and find space to accommodate Tracy’s bag as well, which was far from small, and not exactly my style either. I looked over my shoulder to see if I could offload it on to her. I saw that she had somehow managed to squeeze herself onto the stage, sitting on a stool while Kieran belted out tunes.

Just when I found my stride with Kieran’s rendition of "Where Do You Go to my Lovely", singing along with the rest of the crowd, I felt a sharp tug as the oversized bag was plucked from my grip. I turned in the direction of the movement and saw the most striking man stood beside me, tenderly holding the handles in a manner which seemed impossible for the force he exerted.

"May I?"

The words dripped from his lips as he gently pulled the bag from my hands and gestured to a small brass hook attached to the underside of the bar. Before I could object, he had nimbly tucked the bag on the hook, neatly hiding it under the bar.

"Please forgive me if I appeared rude," he added, "you seemed very uncomfortable."

"Uh, thanks. Thanks very much." His accent was Eastern European I think.

I caught a glimpse of Mickey out the corner of my eye. He was busy trying to serve two very drunk girls at the end of the bar, both of whom were clearly trying a little too hard to keep his attention. Fair play to him, he was fending them off quite well.

If it was possible to look like you were speeding up the pulling of a pint, he undoubtedly was achieving it. I was flattered. The stranger followed my gaze and spotted Mickey’s steely look. He turned back to me and caressed my shoulder gently as he walked away. Nothing further was said; he just disappeared silently into the crowd.

"You okay? Is he bothering you?" Mickey asked.

The familiar Irish tones shook me from my stupor. Maybe it was because I wasn’t used to conversing with attractive, well groomed, older men, but ‘tall, dark and handbag’ as I decided to nickname him, had knocked me for a six a little. He was just so damn suave – or perhaps just incredibly well-mannered and being extremely handsome just gave him the illusion of being debonair. He was very different from Mickey with his dark shaggy hair and baggy jeans hanging halfway down his bottom. Not that he was unattractive by any means, but it was a bit like comparing your favourite jeans and a couture trouser suit. I pondered on that for a moment – in reality which would you get more wear out of?

"I'm all right," I tried not to smile too much, he was just helping me with my bag, well her bag, you know what I mean".

Somewhat reassured, Mickey nodded and went back to serve his customers. The girls at the end of the bar were flashing him big smiles and one of them was attempting what I thought was meant to be a wink. He gave a nod to Sean, who picked up on serving them, and Mickey went about seeing to other, less lascivious orders.

Occasionally he would come over and have a chat, picking up intermittently on the same bit of conversation. sometimes he would stop for a moment and listen to the music, singing along when he knew the words and helping to whip the crowd into a frenzy with some rigorous hand clapping and feet stomping.

Tracy and Kieran came over for a drink at intermission, when she firmly laid her claim by gripping his hand and laughing at his jokes a little too much. All in all, it was turning into a pretty good night.

I was taken quite by surprise when, three songs into the second set, Sean grabbed me by my shoulders and told me that he thought someone had stolen my bag. My first reaction was to look down, but when did I could see that my small black purse was hanging securely across my body.

I quickly realised what he meant, and my eyes darted to the hook under the bar where Tracy’s bag should be - it had disappeared. I raised myself up on the stool’s footrest and tried to catch Tracy’s attention.

Waving my arms frantically in the air, I beckoned Tracy to the bar, simultaneously asking Sean if he’d seen anything and if so, what exactly. By the time Tracy weaved her way through the crowds, Mickey had noticed that something was going on and put down his half-pulled Guinness to come over too. I’m surprised that the rest of the crowd didn’t come over as well just out of curiosity. It must have looked like I was having some sort of seizure with the amount of thrashing my arms were doing.

As Mickey and Tracy tried to decipher what was going on, my overwhelming thought was that her passport was in her bag.
How the hell do we get her home if her passport's in there? Plus her money and her house keys - how will she get in? Bugger, I bet she’s left her credit cards in there as well
. The most obvious solution was to try and get the bag back somehow. I have always been a believer in taking the most practical solution wherever possible, and at that moment all I could think was "Do something."

"It was two lads", Sean blurted out frantically. "I didn’t see them lift it, but one of the girls over there claims she thought they saw them take it - just now I think."

"Oh crap," Tracy repeatedly muttered.

"We should call the peelers", Mickey said, "Sean, go tell Maggie".

I can’t really explain why I did what I did next. It certainly wasn’t the most sensible action to take, but it just seemed like the one thing that I could actually do to remedy the situation. Before I knew it, I was running out of the door of O’Malley’s with a steely determination which I never knew I possessed. I heard some commotion behind me as I made for the door, a combination of "where’s she going?" and "what does she think she’s doing?" but nothing stopped me. Come hell or high water I was going to try and get that bag back - people could hang about or join me, it was their shout.

It took a few seconds for me to hear the sounds of other footsteps running behind me. By then, I’d picked up the pace, heading down the cobbled road to an even darker side street. I don’t know why I picked the route I did, I think I just assumed that a robber would probably try to make off into a shadier part of town, literally and metaphorically. Tracy and I had established on our daytime wandering that there wasn’t much this way other than dodgy looking restaurants and a few bars – the sort of place I assumed a thief would hang out.

I think that the fact I caught up with the thieves within a few minutes surprised me more than I legged it after them in the first place. I had no idea I could run so fast. They were also not what I expected. Okay, I wasn’t expecting striped jumpers and a bag on their shoulder labelled ‘swag’, but I wasn’t prepared for two well-groomed guys in blazers and fine knit sweaters either. They looked like they should have been extras on Miami Vice.