The Hunt

1

"All our dreams can come true, if only we have the courage to pursue them."

Walt Disney

✥

Micky. Angus. Tran with his bass guitar.

They came past her when climbing up to the stage, smelling of weed and cigarettes. Charlie noticed Angus had a limp, which he tried hard to hide with those floor-scudding jeans that had already started gathering muck from the pub's floor. Everyone had been attacked by a vamp these days.

They were less skinny than on the website. Unlike those noir, over-edged photos of dark circles and empty sockets, Charlie felt that she might be able to hug those boys on the stage, feel their solid shoulders between hands, maybe hold their fingers and feel the hard-won calluses of plucking strings. Angus dipped his head to adjust the amp, and the gold cross around his neck flashed, a warning flare.

"Hello Bridgewater."

The call was flat, bored, but the crowd roared. Stopped previously by the fear of city-life, their stifled shouts seemed to have been shaken by the act of walking through the streets, and now, in the safety of the pub's dark cellar, it had bubbled over.

Mickey – the singer. He didn't flinch as the mike screeched with static, his black-lidded eyes resting on a point in the darkness, open, but not looking, even as he drew up a large hand to cradle the microphone.

Probably thinking about his girlfriend. Charlie's heart pounded. The fact her knowledge had come so readily had sent a thrill of pleasure up her spine. She'd worked hard, for The Amish Yowler's website was cluttered with Calibri titling and 404 erros. Link after link, that trail of breadcrumbs aided by plastic bowls of skittles as the clock  ticked past twelve, as her eyes began to bleed from the blue light.

It had been a surprise, to say the least. At 3 am, she'd appeared without any notice, a fairy from the mist, in her short shorts, her eyes wide as Micky leant into her neck, mouth drawn back to reveal teeth. It wasn't like Charlie had never considered Micky might be dating... Oh no, an attractive guy like that, it was inevitable... It was just, she hadn't wanted to consider it would be someone like that girl, whose jumper brushed shapely thighs, and slipped down a shoulder to reveal jutting collarbones. Who giggled so perfectly as he leant in, twisting her body to create the perfect yin to his yang. Who might be a model, with her wide, open white face, and smile that made her hurt to look at. Who probably was.

A particularly explicit yell from the crowd caused her cheeks to turn red in alarm, and snapped her back into her sweet-smelling leather stool, her glass, sticky with rotten alcohol. It felt silly in her hand, near someone who'd never let a drop past their lips. The liquid glistened in the yellow light of the bar. A prop, really. A flustered purchase, when she'd entered, fizzing from the thrill of showing ID, and opening her eyes to a room full of black t shits and jeans. The latest fashion - set by the very vampires that ruled their city with an iron fist.

Oh well. Charlie smiled at the irony. Looked down at her long, racked skirt, and thrifted blazer, resting against the cedar legs of her stool, crumbled like a purple exoskeleton.

She took a sip of her drink. Another, lulled by its sweet syrupy aftertaste.

"There once was a scar-arlet lady..."

The first bar. Her back bolted straight, her drink spilling cold across her lap. She cursed herself for having drifted off, for having missed the start of the song, their nerves, their delicious first move towards the stage. And now she was scrambling with napkins, feeling their papery white scratch her skin, and she'd missed her favourite, the shift from E minor to d major to c major that made her feel like she was falling off a great height...

"Who took my heart with her...

Charlie sighed at that line, and nursed her drink. She had to prepare herself for what was to come.

✥

1/3

Next part Sunday 14th