6. In The Garden Of Earthly Delights

“How did you two meet?”  Billy asks.

The three of them are on the bed.  Mallory lies on her back, taking care to stay still while Seth rolls a cigarette on her stomach.  Billy is sprawled across the foot of the bed; looking, for all intents and purposes, like a very expensive, spoiled pet.

“It was the late eighties,” Seth begins.

“He says late eighties,” Mallory interjects, “because he can't remember the exact year. It was eighty-nine.”

“Would you like to tell it?” Seth asks, eyebrow raised.

“Not at all, darling.” Mallory runs a hand through his dark, tangled hair as she would a dog’s. “You tell it so much better.”

“It was eight-nine,” Seth continues, “at a place called Frank’s.”

“It wasn’t Frank’s.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Frank’s was the name of the bowling alley where we paired off with that couple who were on their first date.”

“It was also the name of the bar where we first met.”

“I really don’t think it was, darling.”

“Then what, sweetpea, was the place called?”

“Terry’s.”

Seth laughs.

“Terry was the taxi driver who tried to gouge us on that run from Hove to Worthing.  You ended up scaring him so badly he pissed his pants.”

Mallory wrinkles her nose at the memory, but insists that she is still right.  They continue to bicker over a number of minor details that all go over Billy’s head, before agreeing on one thing and one thing only: it was a Friday night.

***

The smell of cigarette smoke rolls over Seth like a pungent but friendly embrace the minute he walks into the bar.  "Blue Monday" plays on the jukebox, and he smirks.  Somehow it makes perfect sense that a song which was wildly popular a couple of years ago would still be making the rounds, with its jittery, synthetic beat and robotic, droning vocals, in this particular corner of Purgatory (otherwise known as the outskirts of Manchester).

Seth pulls up a stool at the bar, orders vodka, and begins to wish he'd been a little more ambitious with his evening plans.  It appears to be Lost Souls Night here at Frank's, or maybe that's just every night in a place like this.  Next to him at the bar, a blonde fiftysomething with big hair and bigger breasts reapplies lipstick as if it's going out of fashion.  Dotted around the room are the glossy-eyed, sallow-skinned alcoholics that can be found in any kind of dive.  They never seem to enter or leave, they simply exist there, as much a fixture as the sticky tables and wobbly chairs; sad, wheezing, superfluous furniture.  A rent boy hangs out in the corner by the jukebox and across the room a middle-aged, slightly balding man in a cheap suit can be seen working up the courage to approach him.  If Hieronymus Bosch had lived in Manchester in the Eighties, this is what he would have painted.

Seth feels, more than hears or sees, the door to the bar swing open.  A blast of cool night air is like a slap in the face amid all this warm, intoxicating mugginess.  The woman walks in just as the interminable “Blue Monday” ends, and the hustler in the corner selects something by Dead Or Alive.  Two thoughts vie for Seth’s attention in that moment:

1)      When was the last time they updated that fucking jukebox?

2)      What the hell is she wearing under that coat, and how do I find out?

“Right round, like a record baby…”  Seth sings and restlessly drums along to the song with his fingers on the surface of the bar as the woman perches herself on the stool to his right.  He can’t sit still.  He instinctively rubs his nose, but he’s not met anybody with coke for days.  So what’s this?  Nerves?   It’s been a while since a pretty girl turned his head enough to get him nervous.  She glances to her left for a second while waiting to get the barman’s attention, her pale blue eyes ever so briefly resting on Seth. 

The glimmer of a smile dances on the corner of her lips like the ghost of good manners that it is, before she turns to the muscular, ponytailed man behind the bar.  Her profile is angular, yet still delicate enough to be feminine.  Heavy, black eyelashes give her an almost sleepy expression.  Dark hair spills out from her high collar and over the shoulders of a white fur coat which seems to give off a glow all of its own, rather than reflect the tainted light of its grim surroundings.  Where the glistening fur ends, slender calves and spike heels can be spotted.  The blood that Seth supped from the throat of a peacocking, power-suited yuppie earlier today now rushes to his trousers. 

He knows he has to possess her.  Fuck her.  Bite her.  He has yet to decide in which order.

“Not many ladies could carry that off,” he says after a few moments, when the barman has presented her with a half pint of stout.

“Iron,” she replies simply, raising her glass a few inches in the air and giving him another one of those half-smiles before lifting the beer to her lips, somehow managing to take a sip without leaving the usual telltale white traces on her upper lip.  The daydream of that alone forces Seth to adjust his sitting position.

“I must say,” he tries again, “that is quite some coat.”

“Thank you,” she glides a protective hand down the front of it.  “You don’t think it’s a bit much?”

“Here?  No.  Good god, no!”  At this, her half smile stretches into what could almost be construed as a grin.  A sexy, somewhat rude grin.

“I’m Mallory,” she says, offering him her hand.  He takes it, shakes it gently, the holds it for just a few seconds longer than is usually considered appropriate before letting go.

“Seth,” he says.

He can already feel what her throat will be like.  Smooth, fragrant – her girlish skin so paper-thin his teeth could puncture it with the slightest of pressure.  Seth forces himself to breathe.  In the corner of his eye, he sees the middle aged salesman (Seth has decided he’s a salesman) accompany the much younger working gentleman out of the bar, his hand resting in the small of his back.  Good for you, Seth thinks.  Tonight could be a good night for all involved.

He catches her watching him; she coyly looks away, but he knows she was looking at his crotch.  Well well well, look who isn’t such a lady after all, he thinks, his breath quickening.  All fur coat and no knickers.

“So, Mallory,” he begins.

“Do you fancy getting out of here?”  She asks.  Her forwardness, coupled with her earnest expression, make Seth wonder if his legs will support him should he stand.

“What?  When we have all of Eden at our feet?”  Seth casts an arm out to the room, then catches Mallory’s eye and they both laugh.  He takes her by the hand and leads her towards the front door.

By the time they reach the car park, the salesman and his new friend have already steamed up the windows of a Ford Escort.  Mallory lets Seth pull her into the alley that runs down the side of the bar, down into the shadows until they are nearly at the rear of the building, where the orange glow of the streetlamps does not quite reach.

There is a definite chill in the air, but for the first time Mallory opens her coat.  Beneath the mounds of white, Seth sees a tiny black dress.  He reaches into the coat and wraps his arms around her waist, allowing her warmth to spread to him.  She pulls him down by his shirt collar and kisses him: not in a particularly urgent or needful way, but as if she has all night.  At some point the fur coat falls from around Mallory’s shoulders and her arms are wrapped as tightly around him as his are around her.

Seth predicted correctly; Mallory smells phenomenal.  He breathes in her hair, her neck, that tender spot at the base of the throat that he has always been partial to, feeling his hunger rising to the surface like an imminent orgasm.  He allows his fangs to graze her skin lightly, to give her one last tingle of pleasure before the pain begins.  Her fingernails tighten their grip against his arm in response; a silent approval.  He guides her back until he has her pressed against the wall, and he feels one of her calves slide up against his.  It’s too much.  Seth closes his eyes, prepares to sink his teeth into Mallory’s jugular…

And feels a sharp, stinging pain in the side of his own neck.

“Ow!”  He pulls back sharply, holding Mallory at arm’s length and staring at her in disbelief.  Her heavy-lidded gaze takes in his wide mouthed, fanged surprise, and she bursts out laughing, her front teeth and lips stained with his blood.

“You’re a...”  Seth’s face reddens at the stupid mistake he just made.  That they both just made.

“You were going to…”  Mallory says between short, ragged breaths, but can’t even finish her sentence without dissolving into hysterics. 

“And you!”  The laughter bubbles up in Seth’s throat; he can’t help it.

“What are the odds, ey?”  Mallory manages to say through fits of giggles.

“Who even knows in this hellhole,” Seth guffaws, nodding to the bar behind them.

A minute or two pass by in silence, as Mallory breathes in deeply and attempts to smooth out the creases in her dress.  Seth still can’t help but watch her hands travel down the black lace.

“Not sure where that leaves us,” Mallory says in an overly jocular fashion, but before she can offer anything else Seth has grabbed a handful of her hair and pressed his mouth to hers.  She responds more aggressively this time, no longer luring him in, but fighting fire with fire, letting him taste his own blood on her tongue.  She pulls down his trousers with one strong tug, not even bothering to fuss with a belt buckle, and forces him to the ground so that she can lower herself onto him.

She really was all fur coat and no knickers, Seth thinks, allowing himself to be splayed out on the damp tarmac and not minding in the least.  He is too busy revelling in the lurid, impromptu moment that he doesn’t yet realise he has met his match.

After they have both come loudly, neither of them particularly fazed by their surroundings, Mallory remains astride Seth.  In the car park beyond the alley, the wheels of the Ford Escort squeak away.

“Whatever happened to little red riding hood?”  Seth asks.

“Look who imagines himself the big bad wolf,” Mallory smiles, leaning forward to kiss him before standing.

A new song can be heard beginning inside; "Don't You Want Me", another anthem that is too old to be current and too new to be classic.

"I love the Human League," Mallory tells him as she straightens her dress for a second time.  "I just know they're going to be around forever."

"Likelier than you'd think," Seth grins, rising to his feet and pulling up his trousers.  "You know Phil Oakey is a vampire, right?"

He watches as Mallory absorbs this information, delight slowly spreading across her pale, birdlike features.  She picks up her fur coat from the ground, shakes it off, and says:

"We're going to have a lot of fun, you and I."