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  He looks down at a notebook clutched in his left hand. "Are you... Sophie Hart?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  He smiles, and reaches out a hand. "Dexter Logan, Dedston Gazette. You might have seen the front page a couple of months ago with a story about the world's largest ice cream. That was me." He seems faintly proud.

  "You're the world's largest ice cream?"

  "No," he says, seeming a little deflated. "I wrote about it. But don't worry." He smiles. "You know, I wrote another piece about a cat stuck in a tree about a month back, had to be rescued with a ladder."

  "You rescued it?"

  He pauses. "Well, no. But I wrote about it." He smiles. "Never mind. I'm just a guy from the paper." He holds out a press card that I don't really bother to look at.

  "Is this about anything in particular?" I ask, feeling kind of sleepy.

  "Yes," he says. "Hang on." He starts searching through his pockets for something, pulling out all sorts of crap - old tissues, matchboxes, ancient mobile phones, lint, pens - but apparently not finding what he's after. "Young people these days just aren't interested in local news," he says. "Thank you, internet! But look, or rather listen, I just wanted to see if you're okay?" He stops looking through his pockets, apparently unable to find what he was looking for, and he fixes me with a stare that's a little more focused than I expected. "After last night. Are you doing okay?"

  It takes me a moment to work out what he could be referring to, and then I become a little concerned. "Okay after what?" I ask cautiously.

  "The mugging," he says. "At the ATM up on West Street last night? How are the bruises? Looked like you took a real pounding there. Lucky you got away."

  I definitely don't want to be having this conversation. "I think you have me confused with someone else," I say.

  "No," he says. "I don't think so. The surveillance video footage from the ATM was very clear. That's how I... you're Sophie Hart, right? So, hey, are you?"

  "Am I what?"

  He smiles. "Are you full of heart?" He launches into a fit of sniffing, and it takes me a moment to realize this is his way of laughing. Just a torrent of little sniffs, with barely any other movement on his face. "Sorry," he says, "you must get that a lot. But seriously, I'd be interested in talking to you about the mugging. Local crime, that kind of story. I could guarantee you a spot on page 5 or 6 of the paper next week, maybe even page 2 - actually, no, forget I said anything about page 2. I wouldn't want to get your hopes up. But..." He winks. "Maybe, baby. You get me? You'd be doing me a favor, and I'd be doing you a favor."

  "Sorry," I say.

  "Look at this," he says, reaching into a shoulder bag and pulling out some photos. He hands one to me. "Recognize this face?"

  I look at the photo. It's Patrick. Unmistakably, undoubtedly him, staring out of what looks like a very old photo. The image is kind of faded yellow, like an old Civil War picture, and Patrick has the same eyes that those soldiers have in old photos. It looks like something from another era.

  "That's an old photo," says Dexter. "Very old."

  "Thank you for your concern," I say. "But -"

  "No problem," he says, interrupting. "I'm just trying to help. Wouldn't want another Jessica Harper or Rose Tisser case in town, would we?"

  "Who?"

  "Can I come in?" he asks. "I think we should talk about what happened to you last night."

  "I was just going out," I lie, figuring I really need to get out of this conversation. It's as if my dreams are starting to bleed through into reality.

  "You're not wearing shoes," he points out.

  "Sorry," I say. "I really have to go." With that, I push the door shut and head through to the kitchen.

  "If you change your mind," he calls after me, "you can contact me at the Dedston Gazette! The name's Dexter Logan! I think we can really help each other out, if you know what I'm saying!"

  Ignoring him, I grab a carton of milk from the fridge and pour myself a glass. There's something about that Dexter Logan guy that really creeped me out. For one thing, I'm certain I'm awake now, yet Dexter was going on about Patrick and the mugging at the ATM last night. For another thing, I don't get how this Dexter guy could know what happened to me at all. Taking a swig of milk, I try to work out how all that stuff with Patrick could have been real. Eventually, I remind myself that it's impossible. Whatever happened last night, I guess it's beyond my comprehension right now, but there's no way I'm going to start believing in vampires. I'm just not that kind of person.

  Patrick

  I watch as Dexter Logan makes his way from Sophie's front door. Logan's a piece of scum. He has loose connections to Benjamin, and his presence here is a clear sign that things are moving fast. I'd hoped to work slowly, and to avoid rushing things with Sophie. Unfortunately, it looks as if I'm going to have to change my plans.

  Sophie

  With nothing to do all day, I end up heading into town and going to the library. I'm certain I'm awake, but I want to look up some of those things that Dexter Logan mentioned. Heading to the library's internet suite, I look up the names 'Rose Tisser' and 'Jessica Harper' online. The only hit I get is a vague reference to an old article in the Dedston Gazette from 1959. Unfortunately, it turns out that the Gazette's archives have only been digitized as far back as a few years ago, but there's a paper archive in the basement of the town hall, so that's where I head.

  After making a few inquiries, I'm given the key to a room number A3 and pointed in the direction of the door to the basement. I go through the door and down a set of dusty steps, and eventually I find myself in a small corridor with four doors leading off to the sides. At first I don't see any markings on the doors, but then I notice something hidden beneath a cake of dirt and dust. I wipe the grime away and find room A7, so I try the others and it's third time lucky. This is probably all a wild goose chase, but it's still better than nothing. Seriously, this is the most excitement I've had for years, which tells you something about my dull life.

  Room A3 is filled with boxes. Absolutely filled with them, from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. The ones by the door seem to be stacked randomly and unsafely, but the ones further back in the gloom are arranged neatly. Fortunately, I know exactly what I'm looking for: all issues of the Dedston Gazette from September 1959. After a little poking about, I find what I think is the right box, so I take it over to a small table in the corner. Inside the box, I find a big pile of very old, faded newspapers, but the top one looks promising: it's dated September 1st 1959. After a quick check, I realize I've found the whole archive for September 1959. That'll be thirty newspapers, then. This could take a while.

  As I work, I can't help but notice a couple of spiders crawling across the table. I guess this dusty old room is full of the damn things.

  By the time I get to the last few days of September, I'm both excited and bored. Excited because there's a chance I'm about to find something interesting, but bored because I can't help thinking this whole fairytale is about to come crashing down. Am I about to find out that I've wasted a whole afternoon sitting in a dusty basement, only to come away empty-handed? Then again, did I have anything better to do? Finally, when I have just one paper left to look through, dated September 30th 1959, I'm nervous.

  Just as I'm starting to think this was a total waste, however, I find what I'm looking for. September 30th 1959, page seven. The first thing I notice is a grainy, low quality photo of a pretty-looking girl in her early 20's. Underneath the photo there's a single line:

  SLAUGHTERED Jessica Harper.

  I look at the headline:

  Girl murdered, another missing in Hoover Street slaying.

  I look back at the photo of Jessica. From more than half a century ago, she stares out at me with her newsprint eyes and I feel like she wants to tell me something. I start reading the news report:

  One girl is dead and another missing after a slaying at a house on Hoover Street Thursday morning. Police say they're hunting a killer who may have
struck on two other occasions in the country earlier this year.

  The dead girl is Jessica Harper, 20, of Bloomville town. She was found entirely drained of blood in an upstairs bedroom of the house at 517 Hoover Street. The only wound on her body was a pair of small holes on one side of her neck. There was no sign of a struggle, nor of the girl's blood.

  Jessica Harper's friend Rose Tisser, who was with her the last time she was seen, has not been home in almost five days and fears are growing for her safety.

  That's all. Not a long story, then. I look at the photo of Jessica once again. One girl dead, another missing, and all the hallmarks of a vampire attack. Of course the authorities will have dismissed that as just a coincidence, an amusing part of the case and something to tie the supernatural buffs up in knots, but now that I've met Patrick and Vincent I can't help wondering. I mean, vampires clearly aren't real, but pieces of this whole story are starting to come together. I guess I did meet Patrick last night, and the whole thing wasn't a dream after all. I guess Vincent must be some kind of aging vampire nut. Is it possible that, all those years ago, he killed those two girls? Have I just, accidentally, solved a cold murder case?

  Sophie

  "He's a vampire," says Shelley later that evening, nudging me in the ribs. "And he's fucking hot! Hey, where'd you get that black eye?"

  She keeps talking, but I just nod, not really paying attention. It's gone midnight and Shelley has brought me to this party, and now she's introducing me to this guy she's met, his name is... something... and he's dressed all in black, with dyed black hair and black make-up, black lipstick, black nails, black fingerless gloves... spot a pattern here? And he has this annoying habit of quoting Edgar Allan Poe during conversations, and that's just about the only contribution he has to make. Oh, and he drinks pint after pint of cider; he says Muse and Rage Against the Machine are the future of music; he's wearing a Rammstein T-shirt, and he's going to get a tattoo next week but he hasn't decided the details but he's open to suggestions. No-one gives him any suggestions, so he asks what I think he should get as a tattoo, and I just shrug. He tries again, and then he keeps on talking even though I'm definitely not listening and even Shelley, who obviously wants to fuck him, looks like she's zoning out. Yeah, a real vampire...

  "What's your name again?" he shouts over the music.

  "Sophie," I shout back.

  "Cool," he says, before taking a big gulp of cider. Since when do vampires drink cider?

  Bored, I decide to bite. "So you're a vampire?" I ask.

  "You might think that," he says. "I couldn't possibly comment."

  "How's that working out for you?"

  "Bloody brilliant!"

  "What's your name?" I ask.

  "Rob," he says. "But I have various aliases."

  "Let me guess," I say. "You write poetry?"

  "Yeah," he says. "I'm inspired by -"

  "His poetry's amazing," says Shelley, butting in, looking a little concerned that she's being excluded. What I really want to do is talk to Shelley about what's happened to me, to tell her about Patrick. But she's more interested in this Rob guy than in anything I could tell her, and she'd never believe me anyway.

  As Shelley and Rob carry on flirting, I zone out of the conversation. I like Shelley a lot, and we've been friends for years. She's got a good heart, but she always picks wretched, rancid guys to date, fuck or pine over. And this Rob guy, the so-called vampire, seems to be the latest example. First off, he should go back to the store where he bought all his make-up and vampire clothes: he forgot to pick up a personality while he was there.

  I suddenly realize that Shelley has stopped talking, and she and Rob are waiting for me to say something. After a moment of uncomfortable silence between the three of us, Shelley puts her arms around Rob the vampire, and then she grabs his glass of cider and takes a sip. Pretty desperate.

  I open my mouth to say something inane...

  "Hey Rob," Shelley says, "Let's go find a room. You can read me some of your poetry." She steers him out of the room, winking at me as they go. I know what's going to end up happening there. I just hope she uses protection this time. I really don't need to spend another Friday morning keeping her company at a clinic on the other side of town.

  I stay at the party for a while, but I'm bored and by 1am I realize Shelley probably isn't coming back for me at all, so I go and grab my jacket from the sofa where some asshole is sitting on it, and I have to damn near pull it from under him because when I ask him to move his butt he seems to think I'm flirting. But I don't flirt. I can't flirt. I've tried it in the past and it always ends up being... regressive.

  On the way out I look for a bathroom but I accidentally go into a bedroom, where I just so happen to find Rob and Shelley on the bed.

  Shelley has her top and her bra pulled down, with her breasts exposed, and Mr. Vampire is sucking on her left nipple. As I watch, Shelley looks over at me and she has this really curious look in her eyes, like nothing I've seen before, like she's barely aware of what the idiot's doing with her breasts and all her attention is focused on me. I like it, it's flattering. And then, slowly but very deliberately, Shelley reaches out one hand to me, as if she wants me to join them.

  For a moment - just a moment - I think about it. After all, why not? I'm not attracted to Rob, obviously, and I'm definitely not attracted to Shelley, but messing around with them at least seems like something fun to do with my bruised and battered body right now. I nearly go and join them, but something holds me back. Looking at Shelley's hand, stretched out to me, I realize I have somewhere else to be tonight. So I give her my best 'sorry' smile, and she withdraws the hand and turns her attention back to Mr. Vampire, and I leave the room, leave the party, and eventually leave the whole damn town as I set off on my walk home.

  In fact, I end up walking the long way home. The very long way, out through the scrublands. So long, in fact, that a walk that should take me ten minutes ends up taking more than two hours. And it's all because I decide to head down to the edge of the forest again, where I was earlier. That's right: barely a day after getting nearly killed, I'm out on my own again, but I'm not scared. I'm on a mission.

  I'm looking for Patrick. Even if he's a fantasy, he's a fantasy I want to see again. We all need fantasies, right? Even if I walk around the scrubland every night for the rest of my life and never see him again, I won't stop believing he's real. All I need is a good fantasy and a house full of cats and I can be perfectly happy. And hey, you never know, there's always a chance he'll be here one night. Damn it, it's almost as if I'm starting to believe that he might be a real vampire...

  After nearly an hour of this, going backwards and forwards from belief to disbelief over and over, I realize it's useless. There's nothing here, and it's starting to rain. If the tunnel entrance really is here, then somehow I'm completely missing it, and if it isn't, then I'm wasting my time. With the rain getting heavier and heavier, I decide to call it a night. For a minute, I think about heading back to the party and getting into bed with Shelley and Mr. Vampire, and seeing how that goes. What's the worst that could happen? At least it'd be warm. But they're probably asleep by now, or he's reading her some poetry. Naked bodies are warm, but poetry would ruin the mood. Besides, I'm definitely a little drunk, and I'd just regret it in the morning.

  So I decide to go home alone. Again. And as I head back into town, I manage to slip in the mud and land face first. Although I'm not hurt, I stay on the ground for a moment, listening to the rain all around me, feeling the cold mud soak its way slowly through my clothes. Eventually, when it gets too cold and I feel too ridiculous, I haul myself to my feet and decide to get home as soon as possible.

  As I walk, I realize how stupid this whole thing is. There's no such thing as vampires. They're complete fiction, a horror story invented hundreds of years ago to scare children. The only people who believe in vampires these days are lonely hormonal teenage girls and pretentious, mascara-wearing guys. After all, if vampires
existed, there'd be proof. They'd have been captured, studied, dissected and understood. Patrick and Vincent, that whole night... it wasn't real. Somehow, improbably, I happened to survive a mugging and then I ended up being rescued by a pair of fantasists. Vampires aren't real, and they never have been.

  When I get home, I realize my mother is still awake. I can hear her in the front room, beer cans clanking together. Really, mother?

  I creep to my room. I'm not remotely tired. In fact, I think I'm more awake than I've ever been. I look in the mirror, and staring back at me is the face of a girl who believed for a few hours that she had found something magical, but who now realizes she was deluded and stupid. So I think about other things. Should I dye my hair black? Start wearing more make-up? Get a tattoo, or a piercing? Plastic surgery? Fake breasts? New nose? Something has to change. But whatever I do, I'll need to earn some money first, because change isn't cheap. And there are no jobs around this town. So I'm stuck with what I've got, which isn't particularly great.

  What's the cheapest, easiest way to completely become someone else?

  After staring at my own face for a few minutes, in a completely narcissistic and self-absorbed way, I go through to the bathroom and turn on the shower. While it warms up, I strip off. I've decided to get completely clean, and then go to bed and maybe think about him for a while. Is that sad? Turning down a possible threesome with Shelley and Mr. Fake Vampire, in order to go home alone and fantasize about Mr. Real Vampire? Is this what my life is going to be? Lots of fantasy but precious little reality? Sad or not, it's what I'm doing, so I have a quick, warm shower, and then I wrap a towel around myself and head back to my room. I'm actually looking forward to getting into bed and thinking about Patrick