IN TIMES OF WANT
And other stories
Marie O’Regan
Hersham Horror Books
Hersham Horror Books
Logo by Daniel S Boucher
Cover by Edward Miller 2016
Copyright 2016 © Hersham Horror Books
ISBN: 978-1530485079
All rights belong to the original artists, and writers for their contributed works.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Collection.
First Edition.
First published in 2016
Also from
Hersham Horror Books:
Alt-Series
Alt-Dead
Alt-Zombie
PentAnth-Series
Fogbound From 5
Siblings
Anatomy of Death
Demons & Devilry
Dead Water
The Cursed Series
The Curse of the Mummy
The Curse of the Wolf
The Curse of the Ghost
The Curse f the Zombie
The Curse of the Monster
The Curse of the Vampire
Table of Contents
Foreword
The Real Me
In The Howling of the Wind
Cat and Mouse
Listen
Plus Ça Change
In Times of Want
The Unquiet Bones
World Without End
Someone To Watch Over You
Such is Life
Play Time
Inspiration Point
A Garden for Lily
Safe
In My Mind, Mine Understanding
The Cradle in the Corner
Afterword
Story Notes
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Foreword
The irony about being asked to write an introduction for Marie O’Regan is that she really should need no introduction; not in terms of the British horror writing scene at any rate, and I imagine across the Atlantic too. Marie has been a firm and active member of the BFS and the Horror Writers’ Association for many years, and is passionate about both the genre itself and those who work in it. Her soft spoken voice conceals both a wicked sense of humour and also a core of steel. To Marie, the genre and its reputation are her family – like a mother lion, she’ll do anything to protect it. She’ll also do anything to protect you. A rare trait in the world these days and even rarer in a genre that so often threatens to destroy itself from the inside.
Marie and her then boyfriend/now husband Paul Kane were two of the first people I got to know when I started going to conventions in the UK, and they were already established stalwarts of the scene, known not only for their writing and their organising of conventions and open nights, but also for being two of the nicest, kindest people you could meet. Niceness probably isn’t what the book-buying public immediately think of when they think of horror, and certainly won’t be foremost in your head when reading the tales within these pages – which are far nastier than nice – but if any darkness lives in Marie’s soul she keeps it very well hidden.
As well as writing her own fiction and screenplays, Marie is also an accomplished editor, having put together several high profile anthologies, including the Mammoth book of Ghost Stories by Women and Hellbound Hearts. In the latter all the stories had to be influenced by the original Clive Barker work, ‘The Hellbound Heart’, which spawned the iconic Hellraiser movies, and it is in both of these works that Marie’s influences and story preferences, to me at least after reading this very collection, become clear.
‘In Times of Want’ is what I would call, in my very professional way, an ‘old school’ collection. Before you throw your hands up in alarm, this does not mean old-fashioned or out-dated, but instead is a collection that harks back to those short stories where I, and many of us, first learned to love horror. They are stories of creeping dread. There are echoes of Barker’s Books of Blood and King’s Nightmares and Dreamscapes to be heard as you turn the pages. A hint of M R James. A flavour of John Connolly. A nod to a Pan book of Horror.
What can you expect from ‘In Times of Want’? Well, you won’t be left wanting. There are ordinary people drawn into horrifying situations; for example the psychiatrist with the OCD patient who gets far more than he bargains for when treating her. There are tropes you will recognise before they lead you down their own, new, dark paths. The mystery deaths on train tracks with a family secret at their core. The broken down car that leads to a monastery in the middle of the night. Dreams of losing one’s teeth that have far, far reaching consequences. These are stories you can sink into and relish, perhaps one a night by the fireside or in bed, just before turning the lights out. Ghostly tales that send a shiver through you, and finishing with a story of a haunted cradle that couldn’t help but make me think of a blend of Rosemary’s Baby and The Woman in Black.
There are other stories with more modern concerns however, and the collection opens with one such, ‘The Real Me’ about the dangers of plastic surgery and this obsession with perfection that has gripped the world. There is also a tale of domestic violence - and the horror in that is perhaps more of the real than the unreal - and how it can ultimately trap both partners, just not perhaps in the ways you might think! There are dark crime stories, and battles of good and evil, and in some a wickedness that will make you smile.
So, when I say ‘In Times of Want’ is old school, that is a compliment. There are stories here to sink into with relish; familiar tropes in unfamiliar territory. The kind of stories you want the lights turned down low to read and to be curled up in an armchair reading, just the right length for reading each to be like selecting a chocolate from a box and savouring it.
This, of course, isn’t Marie’s first collection. A prolific short story writer, her first collection is called Mirror Mere, and I suggest that if you enjoy the stories you find here, then you go to the PS Publishing website and grab a copy of the ebook of that. Because Marie O’Regan, for all her kindness and charm, has a dark side that clearly needs to be vented on you, dear readers, and as you will see in the tale of Robert Leary towards the end of this collection, repressed darkness can be bad for the soul.
So, go ahead and turn the page and let the nicest woman in Horror freak you out for a while.
Happy Reading!
Sarah Pinborough
2016
.
For Paul, for everything.
The Real Me
Grace stared into the mirror, looking for some sign that the changes she’d so recently and enthusiastically wrought had changed her. Had changed her, the sense of self that one intrinsically has, from the very first inkling that there is a self: something separate and alone.
Her eyes were the same. Pale blue-green, staring coldly back at a face that seemed – on the surface, anyway – only subtly altered. At twenty-five, the lids had not yet started to droop. Her lips were slightly fuller, it was true; the result of minor collagen injections she felt sure were almost imperceptible; her skin alabaster smooth now, thanks to a chemical peel. This second procedure, in particular, had been painful – and there were times, as she peeled off the strips of blac
kened, charred skin, that she had wondered what on earth all this was for – but there was no denying the end result. Smooth, shiny skin now covered her face, and Botox had taken care of the slight frown line that had been developing. All in all, she was pleased with the results of her latest efforts.
The bathroom door opened, and another of the hospital’s patients entered. Mia was small, only five foot three to Grace’s five eleven, and her hair was short, dark and spiky – the opposite of Grace’s flowing, honey curls. Yet Mia was the striking one. She bounced into a room and filled it with energy, while Grace’s entrances were quieter affairs, more subdued and almost reticent. It irked her that, although she had always prided herself on her manners and her appearance (ladylike at all times, in all things, as per her mother’s instructions), it was Mia who people remembered. Mia who people warmed to.
Grace who people ignored, or failed to notice.
Mia ran her stubby fingers through her own spiky coiffure and her cheerful reflection grinned at Grace. “What’s the matter? Something else need fixing?”
“No! Why, what have you seen?” Grace pored over her reflection anew, convinced she’d missed some overlooked imperfection, and Mia roared with laughter.
“For God’s sake, aren’t you ever going to be happy?”
“You can’t talk, Mia Ryan. You’ve just had a tummy tuck.”
Mia’s face darkened. “True. I have. But only to fix the mess left after losing five stone. I’m happy now.” She stared at herself in the mirror, grinned, and her reflection winked at Grace, taunting her. “What’s your excuse?”
Grace couldn’t say.
Mia moved closer, stood on tiptoe, and brought her mouth close to Grace’s perfect, shell-like ear. “When are you going to be happy with who you are? When are you going to be happy?”
Grace had no answer.
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she marvelled again at the dewy complexion magnified underneath, Mia’s annoying presence temporarily forgotten.
She left the bathroom and went back to her room, eager to see the doctor and be discharged, a disgruntled Mia staring after her. But try as she might, Grace couldn’t get Mia’s question out of her head. “When are you going to be happy?”
Five days later, back in the sterile environs of her loft apartment, she still had no answer. She lay on her black leather recliner and gazed at the white walls and floor, devoid of decoration – save for mirrors artfully dotted here and there. Who was she? What made her so quintessentially her, Grace Byrne? A thought flitted across her mind’s eye and she tried unsuccessfully to frown, wincing at the slight pulling sensation. Was she even real? She lay there, perfect in every way thanks to the efforts of numerous plastic surgeons, and couldn’t remember what was actually her now; as she’d originally been. What was pure, unadulterated Grace, and what was plastic? And did it make any difference anyway?
She felt the skin on her forehead strain once more as it tried to crinkle, and smoothed her brow with her fingertips, taking care to be gentle with the papery membrane. Feeling slightly disgusted with the sensation, she moved to the bathroom, poring over her reflection as closely as she could. She looked beautiful. Flawless. Yet the nose wasn’t hers, not really – not the way God had intended. Neither were her lips, or her forehead… she even had cheek implants!
“What are you obsessing about now?”
Grace jumped, the gruffness of her husband’s tone jarring her out of her reverie. “Nothing, I just thought…”
“What? You saw some miniscule wrinkle and you’ll just die if you don’t have it fixed?” Mike pulled his tie loose and undid the top button of his shirt, groaning as the reddened flesh of his neck was released. “Newsflash. You’re perfect.” He disappeared from view, into the adjoining bedroom.
Grace hesitated, then followed, unsure of his mood.
Mike glanced briefly at her as he hung his jacket over the back of a chair and eased his shoes off, sighing with relief. He undid his trouser belt, then went to the bed, looking for his pyjama bottoms. Mike liked to be comfortable. Grunting as he struggled into his pyjamas he said, “You were perfect when I met you, I spent fortunes on you, and you’re even more perfect now. Apparently.” He turned to her, his face stern. “There. Is that enough support? Enough comfort for you?”
She cringed as she answered, “I don’t know why you’re angry, I was just looking. That’s all.”
“At what?”
She hesitated. This was going to sound crazy, she knew, but the seed had been planted. And so… “I know I’ve fixed everything.”
Mike added, “Nothing needed fixing,” in an undertone, but she chose to ignore that. Steeling herself, she carried on.
“I know I look… better, now. But…”
“But what, Gracie?” His tone had softened, somewhat; he could see she was nervous. Just not why.
“But what if I’m not me anymore?” She gazed at him, trying to gauge his reaction – to see if he understood. He just stood there, perplexed – and a little scared, too, she thought.
Finally, he took a step closer, smiled; his posture designed to soothe, to calm. “Honey, I don’t know what you mean. You’re beautiful.” He stroked her hair, tried to ignore the slight flinch as she automatically protected the new skin of her face. “You always were… to me.” He pulled her close, nuzzled her neck, and she tried to relax into the comfort of his embrace. “What’s this all about?”
She moaned. “I don’t know, really. It’s just… Mia at the hospital asked what would make me happy, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Aren’t you happy?” Although he was still holding her, Mike had stiffened at her words and his tone had hardened a little. Thin ice.
She snuggled into his chest, eager for his warmth, and smiled as his arms wrapped tightly around her; holding her safe once more. “Of course I am. I love you, you know that. But… I look in the mirror and I’m not sure if it’s still me staring back. Does that make sense?”
Mike released her then, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, just staring into the distance. When he looked at her again, he’d aged ten years at least. He looked old and worn. And frightened. “Honey, you’re the woman I married. The woman I promised to spend the rest of my life with, ’from this day forward’, the whole nine yards… So, you’ve fixed a few things. Who hasn’t these days?
Grace considered this. Was she any different to the myriad others who sought to improve their lot through surgery? A nip here, a tuck there? Did it affect who they were? She wasn’t certain. She smiled down at her husband, ruffled his hair affectionately. “You haven’t, thank God.”
He placed his arms around her waist, pulled her close, leaning his head against her taut, flat belly – the liposuction had obliterated all trace of softness here, and his face ground against her muscled abdomen. Still, she smelled wonderful. “I don’t have to, do I? I’m happy as I am. Long as you love me.”
She kissed his head, noting the beginning of a thin patch at the crown. “Of course I love you. I always have.” She made a mental note to make an appointment for him with a trichologist. Plugs had improved so much; they were barely noticeable these days.
Over the next few days, Grace observed those around her. Working as she did in the offices of one of London’s more successful modelling agencies, she was surrounded by the surgically enhanced, day after day. Tuning out the inane chatter of who was doing what, and to whom – what was ‘in’ this week, and who hadn’t noticed so was ‘so over’ – she took stock of the faces and bodies of these, her workmates, her supposed friends. And one thing hit her immediately.
There was a homogenous quality to all of them that she found disturbing. Male or female, many had the same mouth, or chin. No one could frown or do more than twitch an eyebrow. Nobody looked real. After a while, she became aware that they were watching her, too, and she was convinced that they knew she was seeing them properly, maybe for the first time. Coffee cascaded across her keyboard as she scram
bled to her feet, and files clattered to the floor.
“Are you okay?” Her supervisor, Ms Gleeson, was staring at her over her half-rimmed glasses, her expression slightly wary.
Grace nodded. “I’m sorry, I just… I’m not feeling very well.”
“Then you should go home, dear.” The voice came from behind Grace, silky smooth. Turning, she saw the office manager, Ms Kenyon, staring at her. She smiled, and Grace felt her insides turn to ice. “We can’t have you here if you’re sick, can we?” She took a step back, her tone harsher as she went on, “You might be infectious.”
The room emptied as if by magic – infection was worse than imperfection, but only just. Grace nodded. “Thanks, I will.” She cleared her desk, put on her coat, and headed for the elevator – unmolested by anyone in the now barren office. As the elevator doors closed she glimpsed the first of her workmates venturing out of their cubicle, a handkerchief clamped to her oh-so-perfect nose as she sprayed disinfectant into the air.
Back in the safety of her home, Grace flicked channels on the TV, seeing for the first time how similar everyone was there as well. All the size zeros, with their uniform smiles and teeth, hair teased into whatever style was currently fashionable. Where were the individuals? Where were the real people?
Mike called to say he was delayed at the office, not to wait up. Bored, she gave up watching TV and went to bed.
She woke when Mike slid into bed beside her, some hours later. His breathing grew softer, shallower – Grace was surprised he hadn’t kissed her on the neck, his usual habit when coming to bed late. “Mike?”
No answer.
“Mike? Honey?” She switched on the bedside lamp and sat up, tapped his shoulder. Sighing, he rolled towards her, and she recoiled. “What did you do?”
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