“Say bleh!”
“BLEH!”
The flash goes off without a sound. I always anticipate a
click or a puff of smoke, but phones these days are made for people with
secrets.
The caveman in the pollo shirt scrolls through the dozen
photos he’s taken, then, presumably satisfied, tucks the phone into his jeans
pocket.
His face and neck are beet red, but he’s smiling through the
pain, if he even feels it.
I’m smiling too, a big, fake, saccharine smile.
“Those are quite impressive.” The man says, pointing at my
fangs.
“That’s because they’re real.” I smile a little less, so
only the tips are visible, and widen my eyes at the children either side of me.
Instinctively, they rush over to their father, all riled up
on fear and sugar.
It’s not real fear though, of course.
They know there’s nothing real in this place; the cobwebs
aren’t real, the fog isn’t real, the blood isn’t real, and the actors, well, we
might as well not exist.
The man doesn’t laugh but he looks like he wants to.
Instead, he says, “Good one, mate” and ushers his family
towards the gift shop.
I let my smile drop completely, feeling a sort of lull, a
peaceful unmasking.
But it doesn’t go unnoticed.
From behind the reception desk, Monica gestures me over with
a hooked finger.
The last of the guests are making their way to the exit,
filling the room with a low buzz, like flies swarming rotten meat.
“Leo…” She begins, donning a lifeless smile of her own. “You
were looking a little glum there. Don’t take your role too seriously, you’re
not dead yet.”
It takes an embarrassing amount of energy not to roll my
eyes.
“All I’m saying is, vampires are theatrical, they’re…
fearsome. They don’t stand around looking gormless. You have to be on
even when there’s no one around, mm?”
I press my lips together and make the same sound.
Mm.
Monica smiles once more, harder this time. I notice the
hairline crack in her name badge, crossing out half the letters.
Then I’m in the changing room, folding my costume into a
neat little pile and placing it gently into my locker.
I’m wearing a dark blue shirt, the top button undone, and acid
wash jeans. Before I leave, I drape a burgundy scarf around my neck and let my
hair down, blinded momentarily by bright auburn tresses.
The streets of Whitby are both vile and quaint. The stench
of overflowing rubbish bins hits the nose as soon as you take your first step.
Then there’s the bird shit: on the pavement, the bins, the handrails.
The seagulls themselves walk among the townspeople, so large you might mistake one
for a lost child.
This is the only place in England where you are encouraged
to shield your food rather than your purse, lest some great vulturous biped
snatch it from your mouth, mid bite.
Not that it isn’t fun to watch stupid people suffer. And I
see a lot of that here. Suffering.
It isn’t just the ignorant, no. It’s everyone.
The street performers doused in silver paint brighter than
their futures, the waiters and waitresses ducking into dark corners on their
fag breaks just to escape the nausea of other people, even the food-faced
children rushing to the arcade with pockets full of pennies while their parents
spend the real cash on booze and blow.
They’re all on a spectrum of suffering, but no matter how
minor, none of it goes unnoticed. Not by me.
I take my own suffering to The Black Dog. When the
pub first opened, the name was too indelicate to ignore. Even more indelicate,
I ordered myself a Blood and Sand; scotch mixed with cherry liqueur, vermouth, with
a slice of blood orange.
Food isn’t exactly a passion of mine, not even a vague
interest if I’m being honest. But this was a monumental discovery.
Alcohol and sugar. Who knew it could be such a fine and
lethal concoction?
I became a regular from that day. At least, that’s how the
overly indifferent bar staff saw me.
I saw myself as a shadow, a wraith. I was certain I was not
to be messed with, even if I could not remember the last time that claim was
put to the test.
That night at The Black Dog, the night that followed
my run in with Monica, the pillar box red of Mr Caveman’s sunburn seared into
my memory, I entered the pub without so much as glancing at its patrons. Instead,
I headed straight for the bar, ready to take up my usual seat, already uncoiling
the scarf from around my neck.
But my seat was occupied.
This niggled me, but it was to be expected from time to
time. My scent resides on that stool, but those microscopic traces of my being cannot
be identified by the naked, human eye.
I took a seat to the right and was greeted rather solemnly
by a bartender I did not recognise. The pub had such a high turnover of staff,
I often wondered whether behind the scenes things were so grim they sent fresh
faced students running back to Mummy, or if it was the mundane crowd of faces
like mine that saw them drained of what little sanity they had to begin with.
After placing my usual order, I finally turned my attention
to the punter to my left, the one who had unknowingly claimed my seat as their
own. Their hair was shaved on both sides, with the central portion twisted into
intricate plaits, like those of a Shogun or Valkyrie. Their eyes were framed by
kohl and black eyeshadow, and just below their bottom lip, a silver spike
glistened.
Anyone else might have worried about getting caught, but the
stranger had been eyeing me long before my gaze settled on them.
My pulse, or in the very least, the echo that was left of
it, did not jump at my wrist, but there was a level of intrigue there. I had
not cruised The Black Dog in some time, deciding quite early on that I
would not “shit where I ate”, neither of those actions making much sense given my
current state, or the state of the pub for that matter.
I didn’t have to ponder it too long. When my drink arrived,
the stranger locked eyes with the bartender and said, “I’ll have what he’s
having” and a small nod was exchanged.
I could have remained silent, let their little fantasy
fizzle out, but I was in a playful mood.
“It’s not for everyone.” I brushed the glass lightly with my
fingernails.
The punter smiled. It was an uneven smile but not without
charm.
“I’ve been told that before.” They said, voice charred like
most of the pub’s regulars. “This is where I’m supposed to say ‘I’m not
for everyone’ and even though you’re cringing internally, you say-“
“I have an eclectic taste.”
We’re both smiling now, and it isn’t as painful as it could
be.
When their drink arrives, we raise our glasses in a small,
impromptu toast.
“To good taste.” I say, taking a large sip.
“To good taste.” Their eyes darken. “And poor decisions.
Leopold.”
The ice rattles in my glass and there’s laughter in my chest.
“I beg your pa-a-ardon?”
I look down and the drink is no longer in my hand, the
stranger is sliding it away from me, keeping their eyes firmly fixed on mine.
The barstool begins to slip away too, replaced first by my
feet, and then the floor.
A pair of cold lips press against my ear.
“Shhh…This will all be over soon.”
