The Vampire With A Manga Girl Tattoo Part Four This is How We Hunt
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The Vampire With A Manga Girl Tattoo, Part One: Girl On A Train. free porn video
My laptop primed, its humming warmth reassuring on bare knees. I'd hoped to work on the train, but the chatter and laughter of people travelling to a gig distract me. Excited, loud, they have taken seats throughout the carriage. There is a carnival atmosphere and my mind will not focus. Luckily the seats next to me remain vacant. To have people sitting close would be intolerable.
I should be back on campus, lecturing anthropology at Bellingham College. But I have taken a month out, hoping time away might unshackle her memory.
I still dream of her at night — and now the dreams invade my waking hours. Just last week, at the mall, I glimpsed her among the bustle of shoppers, her fleeting form disappearing into the flow of hurrying bodies. And that time in Harvey Nichols. Standing in line to pay for my things — so sure it was her leaving the store. Clear as day, beautiful as an arctic night. No dream. I swear it.
I dropped my bags, ran out to the street but found no trace. Other times too. After midnight in that nightclub. The flash of her startled eyes, her slender flesh drawn down by a tide of bodies, the heave and sway of euphoric dancers. Then breaking from my friends, threading through the crush frantic to touch her again, to take her by the shoulder and turn her to face me. Accuse her: "Laetitia!"
I never do reach her. Even in my dreams,
I'm back from a week in Wales with my older brother Mick. I have gained a new perspective. At last, both hands firmly on the tiller of my life.
I envy what Mick has achieved. His studio in the heart of Snowdonia is world-renowned. His home, a converted farmhouse nestled among the mountains, a meeting place for artists and writers. They travel from every corner of the globe to learn, share their thoughts. And Cathy, his latest love interest, a gifted artist herself. Quite stunning
Today I travel from idyll to suburban cliché. It's to be two days with my older sister Jennifer, Carl her husband. They live in York, raising their two hyper under-fives, Daphne and Beatrice. Still, it staves off the return to my apartment, where the manuscript of my second novel awaits the void only my mind will bring, now long-stalled, a piece of shit going nowhere — such a waste of two good years. But I must see it through; it will be my escape tunnel from the claustrophobia of academia.
Mick suggested I move to Wales, proselytising for the life he leads. Out in the mountains, I could hunker down and get some serious writing done. We trawled the net for a property during my stay, something I might afford — Bryn Coch Cottage, fifteen miles from Mick's home. Set in the shadow of Mount Analogue with distant views of the coast, I thought it ideal. With what Dad left me in his will, I should be able to afford it. And then I can work. And perhaps when I have finally finished my book, she will remain between its covers.
I'm nursing a hangover. Last night, Cathy and Mick cooked a special meal to say thanks for visiting, the wine and sunset a heady drug as we dined al-fresco. Our conversation flowed back and forth across the table during those rare intimate hours together. My thoughts of her abated as I sipped Merlot and felt saw those tangled knots as the illusion they always were.
We talked, listened and laughed. Occasionally I stole glances at the far mountains, their dark mass ominous, while throughout the garden the encroaching darkness seeped from trees and bushes. Later, to stave off the utter blackness of the moonless night, Cathy lit numerous small lights in jars. A larger one for each of us. I slipped my cardigan around my shoulders, and we talked some more. My hosts' faces, now changed, becoming otherworldly in the glow and flicker of scented flames. Cathy's beauty more than I could have imagined. Opening the third bottle was a mistake. It loosened my tongue and I told too much. At midnight I had to be helped up to my room, undressed and put to bed.
Before sleep took me, I remember Cathy sitting on the edge of my bed, her soft hand stroking my hair, saying to Mick, "Poor thing. She has been through hell."
I didn't want her to go; I needed someone to hold me through the night. But we'd met only that week and were practically strangers. Maybe she did get naked and slip between the sheets and held me close, stayed until all my tears were spent.
On the train and trying to read, I've abandoned any idea of sleep. The inside of my skull feels like a foundry on a war footing. And so I close my eyes and forget Laetitia, relive those times with Amber, shambling through the ruins of our love, turning over the shards trying to reconstruct something that nearly was, breath new life into the crystallised mementoes of our past.
The train is slowing down. I open my eyes and look out of the nearest carriage window. It's Chester station where too many people are waiting to board. Soon they crowd the aisle looking for seats, new arrivals filing past — commuters carrying their soul-sickness home.
I turn away and see the train opposite ours moving away. A young woman in a retreating carriage momentarily returns my dull gaze. And just for a second, something passes between us. I wonder where she's heading and if she's happy to be travelling there alone.
Sudden laughter. The youths in the opposite seat to mine. While beyond them, a slide show of station buildings unscrolls. It's such a shock to realise our train is the one that's moving. Just one more illusion unmasked. I become disorientated, can barely contain a rising panic.
Inside the carriage, a girl struggles up the aisle. She can hardly manage the three large, designer shopping bags that hamper her progress. Small and delicate, she's head-turning pretty. Aged eighteen or nineteen, I guess. She has lightly freckled cappuccino skin and dark curls that fall not entirely to her shoulders.
My grip on actuality collapses.
Only a few vacant seats now. She spots the empty one opposite me and bustles past my knees to make her claim. Her presence unnerves me, and while she attends to her things I pretended to read. It is so hard not to look, to stare.
Her shopping waits on the seat as she rummages in her shoulder bag. While she's busy with her things, I steal glimpses. Her dark blue mini-dress displays her lithe legs sheathed in smoky-grey opaque tights, now only inches from my bare knees. When she takes each bag in turn and goes up on tiptoe to stash it away in the luggage rack, her short dress rides high to show the haze of her white panties snug beneath stretched Lycra.
Each movement suggests a dancer, lithe and supple, every action effortless. When she moves, her perfume blesses the air. A suggestion of patchouli or something darker, a scent I find incongruously wanton. But she's hardly the hippie type, more urban savvy than ashrams and incense.
Everything secured, she slumps into her seat and exhales a loud sigh, notices me looking and gifts me the sweetest smile. I smile too. Weakly. I want to say her name.
The rat-tat of music for the white wires that dangle for a phone strapped to her bare arm. Just below a vampire manga-girl tattoo. She kicks off her shoes and brings each foot in turn up onto the seat, tucking her toes and soles tight against her thigh. On her mobile now. Thumb texting while her other hand rests just above her right knee, two fingers absently stroking Lycra. I go back to my book, my head magically cleared. The train picks up speed, the metallic rattle of wheels occasionally loud over points.
To have her so close promises tragedy. I want to face it, call out her name. But I can't summon the courage — say what I know I must.
Do it, Arabella, say something. Ask her name. No. It is not her. She is just a girl. A girl much like the others who attend your lectures every day.
I read the same line for the fifth time while imagining what she might be capable of, what her beauty might incite. I force myself to watch the bland Cheshire landscape unwinding outside the window, try to see her image reflected in the carriage window — as you can sometimes if it's dull outside. But she's not to be seen. Is it too bright? No, outside is twilight and strange. For one ridiculous moment, real fear grips my heart.
I calm myself with steady, deep breaths learned in Yoga, my summer in India. Another lifetime now. You're ridiculous, Arabella! I look around the carriage and casually check her out in passing. She very much is just a girl, after all. Nothing more than a human female.
When my transiting eyes linger, I find her eyes have laid an ambush. They snag my gaze, such gravity in her regard, am captured, sent careering and toppling into orbit.
She smiles, and the spell is banished. I flash a weak smile and lower my gaze, return to the pretence of reading.
I must get away.
Her fingers delve among helix curls, removing her earphones, shoving the jumble of wires into her shoulder bag. When she has done, she looks directly at me. I know she is going to say something. I squirm in my seat.
"Hi," she says, her voice a beam of sunlight.
I do not look. If I speak, I know I'll babble.
She's determined. "Excuse me!" she says, waving like a small child seeking the attention of a negligent adult.
I manage, "Sorry?"
"I'm sure I know you — don't I? We've met before; I just know we have?"
"I don't think so?"
"But you look so familiar." She reaches down and eases her feet back into her flats. "It'll come to me. I never forget gorgeous people."
She continues to scrutinise me, trying to place me, her brow tight. Now it is her normalcy that unnerves me.
All-of-a-sudden, she lets it go and springs to her feet, says, "I need a drink. Do you want anything bringing?"
"Only if you're going, anyway. Yes, please. Tea. Milk, no sugar. Sure you don't mind?"
"Why should I mind? Would you watch my bags?"
"No problem."
"Thanks. You're a sweetheart." And off she goes, all sugar-rush in a mini dress. Now that she has spoken I feel such a fool. She really is only a girl. My eyes return to watching the landscape becoming sepia in the light of an almost vanished sun.
She returns and hands me my tea, scalding in Styrofoam. Sitting again, eyeing me, she pulls the tab of her Diet Coke. An eruption of froth. Her sweet voice, "Shit!" Her lips kiss metal, stemming, swallowing fast. She looks at me over the edge of her can. The timeless beauty of her eyes. Then she smiles:
"Got it! You're Arabella Rae."
Guilty, as charged.
"You are, aren't you?"
I feel myself blush. It's not often anyone recognises me. Usually, it's adolescent girls with outrageous make-up. Less often these days.
"How did you know?"
"Your picture."
"Picture?"
"The back of your book."
"Oh, that. You did well. Not a good likeness."
"Your hair and make-up are different... It's your eyes." She's looking at me unashamedly – dreamily, even: "Pools of absinthe. Are they all you? Lenses?"
"Pure genetics."
"Lucky-gorgeous-you."
"Thanks."
"You look older too."
I cringe at the word. Older!
She sees her words have cut, says. "Sorry, I meant in a good way. Like a writer should look: experienced and wise. Still beautiful, though."
"Did you like 'the book?" I feel I have to ask, only polite. Readers expect it.
"Oh no, sorry, I've not read it. It's my little sister that's the fan."
"Oh."
God, Arabella, You sounded disappointed.
"Natalie's obsessed. She tried to get me to read it. That's when I saw your photo on the back cover. But the blurb didn't grab me." then brightening, "Your photo made an impression, though."
Now she wears a self-satisfied smile: uniform white teeth that fill a doll mouth beneath lips like the darkest over-ripe fruit. I touch my throat and imagine the tacky residue her kisses might leave, the blackest, dull ache her bite would bring. Laetitia! My God! The things I had you do. I curb those thoughts. They thrill too much.
She raises both arms and gathers up her hair, and I see the elegance of her long neck as she holds her mass of locks in place. It is a moment out of time. And then she lets it loose and shakes her head, and I can only stare, bewitched as it all tumbles back into place to settle on her shoulders as if never stirred. Her eyes watch me, and I struggle to decode the nuances that have made a new home there.
I ask, "What about —?"
"—You really don't remember, do you?"
"Should I?"
"I don't have a sister."
"I don't understand."
"Your book launch?" She stares, a plea for recognition, before continuing, "I'm Chloe?"
I struggle to land the memory, have to dredge and tug to lift it from the depths and land it on the deck of my conscious mind.
It is, I see it now: Chloe!
She was just a girl of sixteen, quite immature for her age, all braces, puppy fat, and glasses. She was the daughter of my agent, Araminta, who had brought her along to meet me at the launch of my first and only published book. Chloe had found a proof copy of my novel on her mother's desk and, attracted by the gory cover, had taken it to her room and read it in one sitting, become obsessed. Obsessed in that intense, all-consuming way that only teenage girls can be obsessed.
And so I'd signed and dedicated that well-read proof copy to Chloe while trying to coax a conversation from her, asking what she liked about my writing, her studies, future hopes. But she would not play, was painfully shy, taciturn.
Later that night, as things were winding down, Amber had said, "You sure have made an impression on Araminta's daughter."
"I have?"
She prompted me with her eyes, and I turned to see Chloe staring at us. Our eyes met for a second, and I smiled to reassure her. But she quickly averted her gaze, her face blushing.
"Since you signed her book, she's never taken her eyes off you," Amber said.
"I suppose it's the price I must pay for being a world-famous novelist."
"You wish."
We both laughed.
I'd never thought of Chloe again.
And now she was here, sitting across from me, no longer a girl.
"Chloe?" I say, smiling a genuine, heartfelt smile. I'm suddenly inexplicably happy. Latitia is banished.
She smiles too, pleased that I've remembered her.
"Of course you are. But you were just a kid last time we met. Look at you now, all grown up and — and beautiful."
She blushes, purses her lips and feigns a kiss. "Aren't I just."
For a moment neither of us speak. I can feel something stirring below the surface, unholy thoughts agitating my emotions. I have to say something, else go insane.
"So, Chloe, what are you doing now?"
Her reply comes fast, in singsong: "Performing arts, second year at The Royal Northern. Mum wanted me to become a classical pianist. I started lessons when I was five. But by the time I was nine, it was obvious I would never play the Albert Hall. And so, I lost interest. I have to be the best, you see, else won't play nice. I can still manage a tune if my audience demands it, darling. But dancing is my thing now. I'm a star."
"I'm sure you are. You move with such grace," I say — and mean it. To see her is to sense her art. "I'd love to see you perform," I say.
"That's sweet."
"I mean it. Really, I would."
She strokes her hair. "If I get the part in the show that I'm auditioning for... then I'll send you tickets." She is pleased with herself for thinking it.
"Thanks. I'd like that very much."
She's staring at me, but I can't think of anything to say. Her beauty has robbed me of platitudes.
With an effort of will, I manage, "How's your mother these days? It's months since we spoke."
I'd not seen Araminta since spring. She'd been patient with me, but when after three months of her badgering and the manuscript of my second novel failed to land on her desk, she'd given up calling.
Chloe takes a sip from the can, then: "Oh, the usual — forever attending functions and literary events."
It had been a world I'd hoped to be a part of, but after the initial media flap over my book, my life had, well, fell apart.
For a moment, my thoughts abscond. I imagine what might have been. But I am soon brought back by Chloe's voice, "You still with that blonde girl?"
She's talking about Amber.
"Amber?"
"Was that her name? The girl you were with at your book-thingy."
"How did you know?"
"Mum said you two were a couple."
The fuck she did.
"Are you two still...?"
"No."
"What happened. You looked good together."
"Too complicated."
"Isn't it always?"
I smile.
She waits, then asks. "Well, are you going to tell me?"
Such prying would normally annoy me. But there's something guileless about the way she asks. Even so, I tell myself not to explain. Still, I find myself saying:
"It was intense and sordid." I immediately regret my words.
Her eyes brighten: "I hoped it might be." She smiles a fellow conspirator's secret smile.
"There won't be time. It's long and involved.
"We have time. It's an hour before my stop. Or am I keeping you from that gripping book you were reading?"
This makes me laugh. Her smile is irresistible, and I think why not. And then, once I begin, it's easy.
The words don't matter; they could never capture what I experienced, never explain how I felt about Amber. I tell of meeting Amber, our time together, about our lovemaking. And as I speak, I relive it all. Then, just before the brick wall of tragedy, I stall.
"Oh, please do go on," she pleads.
I take a deep breath and continue.
"When I met Amber, I was living with a man named Tom. I didn't tell him that Amber and I were lovers, even though I know he would have loved the thought of me with her. She was so precious to me; what we had was ours alone. The thought of Tom getting some blokeish kick from us cheapened something beautiful. So it became like having an affair with a guy. Amber was my guilty secret.
"I would tell Tom I had fieldwork with my students, would travel to meet Amber at a Travel Lodge in some obscure town where we would spend all weekend in bed together. Those days were the best."
I smile as I recall our afternoons cocooned between hotel sheets, just the two of us, the world outside the double glazed windows lost to us as utterly as if to some apocalypse.
I take another sip of my drink, then continue. "When you saw us together, Amber was there to give me moral support because I was so nervous. Tom was travelling overseas on business and couldn't attend. I thought she and I were so discreet. I told Araminta that Amber was just a friend. But if even your mother managed to pick up on how we were with each other, it must have been obvious to everyone. Araminta is not the most emotionally perceptive woman, is she?"
"Oh-my-god, you were so obviously in love. Anyone who saw you together could tell you had feelings for each other. I hated that she was with you. Why did you split up?"
My eyes begin filling up. I take out a tissue and dab gently, trying not to smudge my mascara. The void looms, and I'm reeling back into dispair.
"That bastard killed her," I say.
"Amber's dead?"
"Jason killed her." And she laughs, a silly little girl's laugh.
She does not take it on board. How could she! Does she think I'm winding her up?
Then it registers: "Oh, god, sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to —" She reaches out and touches my hand gently. "I didn't realise."
"How could you." I stuff the tissue up my sleeve. "Amber was petite like you, his hands so big. They say he lifted her with just one and strangled the breath out of her."
She comes and sits next to me, takes my hand in hers.
I tell her, "It's because of me she's dead. People think she must have been having an affair with a bloke and that Jason found out. Everyone knew how jealous he could get. But even I can't work out how he got to know about us. We were so careful."
"Didn't everything come out in the trial?" Chloe says.
"There wasn't a trial. After he'd killed her, left her body on their bed, he disappeared. He's still out there somewhere. Oh God, he'll come for me. I know he will."
She lets go of my hand and rummages in her bag and takes out a green elaborately decorate hair slide. And with the air of someone embarking on a necessary task, one they are determined to see through, she bunches back her thick curls and sets them in place, leaving only a couple of ringlets dangling. She stands and comes to me, sits down by my side.
It is a sweet gesture, a putting aside of all her affectations. I dab my eyes and look up to meet her gaze, see them full of concern. She wants to connect with me on a deeper level, places two fingertips high on my cheekbone near the corner of my eye and wipes away a tear.
The intensity of the gaze we exchange is too much. I turn away and look out the window, afraid I might start to sob and never stop. With effort, I compose myself before I turn to her and say:
"Losing her was more than I could bear. Even then, I couldn't tell Tom about us. Not long after, my relationship with him ended. He said I'd changed, becomes a stupid, neurotic bitch. I moved away and found another post.
Chloe rests her head against mine and shushes me. People are looking, but I don't care.
I take her hands and quietly say, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Listening. It's a year this December since Amber died, and I've only recently been able to talk about it. Last night, at my brother's place, was the first time I've ever told anyone about what we shared."
A voice crackles from speakers announcing the next station. "Shit, this is me," Chloe says. "You too?"
"Usually, but today I'm carrying on to York. I'm going to stay with my sister for a few days."
"I can't let you go off on your own in the state you're in."
"I'm okay — really, I am. Look," I say, trying to bluff composure.
"You sure?"
I muster a smile, and she's reassured. I help retrieve her bags and place them on the seat, waiting for the train to come to rest. Now that I'm standing so close, I see how small she is, only a slip of a thing, just over five-foot to my five-ten.
She comes close and hugs me. I hear the concern in her voice as she says, "Oh-God, I can't believe I'm leaving you like this. We still have so much to talk about,"
Don't go.
She makes to pick up her bags, then panics. "Oh! My number, my number. I must give it to you. We must meet up sometime."
I take out my phone, and she calls out the digits. I key them in and then give her mine.
"I'll call you. I promise!" she says.
We hug some more.
Not so elegant with bags in hand, she shambles along the walkway sideways, trying not to disturb other passengers. I shout after her, "I will call. I promise."
She turns and looks at me, then walks back to where I stand. "Listen: there's a sort of party at our halls tonight. Why don't you come too?"
"I don't know... What kind of party?"
"A cocktail party. Retro. The fifties. You know: ironic." She holds up her bags and smiles: "Hence the shopping."
"Are you sure no one will mind?"
"What a strange thought!"
"I'd like to... But what about my sister? She's going to meet me at the other end. And I don't have anything to wear."
"Stop making excuses. You know you so so want to come home with me. Phone your sister, tell her anything — a lunatic is holding you hostage. Anything! I'll sort something out for you to wear later. Please, Arabella, please say you'll come. I have a sofa bed you can use if it's too soon."
I so want to go with her. But suddenly I'm afraid, afraid I might ruin this girl too.
More words, "Please, take a chance on me, Arabella. You're too lovely and too interesting, and I want to get to know you." She comes and tries to kiss my mouth. But I'm tall, and her lips only come to my chin. I lean down to allow her tongue between my lips. It's only for seconds, but my legs are gone, and I begin to float. One of the lads opposite starts to applaud; his mate gives us a muted wolf whistle. Their attention sobers me. I return to time and space, remembering where I am. Everyone is watching us, and I panic. But then I realise everything is okay, that people seem happy for us.
"Okay. I'll come," I say.
I fumble with my bag, and it falls to the floor. Chloe is quick, stoops to pick it up again, hands it to me. We don't have much time. New passengers are already filling the aisle. We push past them rudely, not caring about crushed toes, giggling like young girls between apologies as we hurry to escape before the doors fasten and the train pulls away.
On the platform, the finality of slamming carriage doors. The guards whistle as I stand with Chloe and watch my train leave, now heading off to a future that I will never know.
"You're insane," I tell her between gasps, wondering how this strange girl has got me to abandon my plans. I put down my bag and wrap my arms around her and lift her off her feet. It's easy; she is a waif, nothing to her. She squeals and drops her bags, and we both laugh. Now that she is in my arms, I am afraid fate has delivered me smoke and mirrors, that when I relinquish my hold on her she will vanish in a puff of smoke.
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