In Times Of Want

by Marie O'Regan

  Emily wondered if she thought this made her appear more intimidating, and bit down on the smile that threatened to bloom. Perhaps she’d have found it more frightening if she hadn’t found herself looking down at the older woman.

  Mrs Lytton took a step forward, not content ’til she was close enough to share Emily’s breath, something Emily found vaguely distasteful, but not particularly scary.

  “My boy didn’t kill himself,” she spat.

  “Emily nodded. “You might be right,” she said before adding with uncharacteristic cruelty: “But he’s dead, so we can’t ask him, can we?”

  The woman gasped, and now she didn’t look threatening – she looked heartbroken, and Emily felt heat blossom in her chest before spreading to her face. How could she have said that?

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it to sound so …”

  “Fucking cruel?” Mrs Lytton interrupted, and Emily had the grace to look sorry.

  She nodded. “I’m sorry he’s dead, I really am. But it’s not my fault.”

  “Then whose is it?” the woman wailed. “Who killed my boy?”

  Emma sighed, and steeled herself for the inevitable response to what came next. “I didn’t see anyone,” she said. “I just heard a cry, and then the alarm. I was running away.”

  “From what?”

  “From Warren.” The woman hissed as if scalded, and Emma hurried to apologise. “I’m really sorry, but he was chasing me … and then he was gone, and I heard him yell … and then there were brakes, and ...”

  “Stop it!” Mrs Lytton screamed, raising her arms as if to fend Emily off. “Bloody stop it, you lying bitch!” Her hand was up and planted firmly against Emily’s cheek before either of them knew it was going to happen, and then she was gone, leaving Emily alone and sobbing, hand raised to the livid imprint on her shocked face.

  Emily caught a whiff of that tobacco again, and shook her head. “No,” she said. “Please don’t.” The smell faded, and she breathed out a juddering sigh of relief, “I’m going home,” she said, to no one. “Alone.”

  No one followed.

  Emily’s piece came out the following day, and her phone started to ring as people realised she’d been involved.

  The article made no mention of the attack she’d been sure was about to follow, but did mention her presence at the station; she found herself to be a celebrity, and decided – with her uncle’s permission – to stay indoors for a few days, until something else of interest happened and she was no longer “interesting” to the gawkers and on-lookers that had crawled out of the woodwork.

  A few days later Emily found herself making her way home alone once more, having spent the evening at a local theatre for a review of a play being put on by the local amateur dramatics society. Blithe Spirit. The joke wasn’t lost, but Emily didn’t think she’d ever find that funny again.

  As she left East Finchley station, she saw a man leaning against the wall, hat pulled down low over his face, shoulders hunched against the cold. She slowed, then drew herself up and hurried forward – she’d be safe inside.

  The man stood up as she approached, and as he lifted his head she saw she’d been scared of nothing.

  “Uncle George,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  He smiled. “I thought you might want some company. Seeing as it’s late.”

  “I’m glad you came. It’s a bit quiet tonight, isn’t it?”

  George nodded, and took her arm. “Come on, we’ll take the bus.”

  Emily found herself propelled down the hill, towards the bridge. “I normally get the bus at the next stop up,” she said, trying to pull away. “It’s a bit dark this way.”

  The bus stop they were heading to was closer, she knew, but she didn’t like going under the bridge where it was dark. And there was a stretch of road just beyond the adjacent pub that was bordered by gardens with overhanging bushes – she preferred to be more visible, especially after …

  George sighed, impatient. “It’s all right, I’m with you.” And kept pulling her on, past the bus stop they should have waited at.

  As they reached the corner of Bishops Avenue, George pushed her to the side, and she found herself by a house with a low fence – and a lot of foliage.

  “What are you doing?”

  George laughed. “I thought we could take a bit of a walk.”

  “Why down here?”

  George’s grip on her arm grew painful, and she got ready to scream.

  “Uncle George, what’s going on? You’re scaring me!”

  “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I didn’t want to do that. I just wanted you to see. I want you to make everyone see.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” she said. “See what?”

  George nodded at the house, but had the grace to loosen his grip. “He lived here.”

  “Who did?”

  “Your saviour. You were right; he’s done this before – and it’s time people knew.”

  Emily turned to stare at the house – unprepossessing in the gloom, she could see, nevertheless, that it was neglected. An air of loneliness pervaded its surrounds, making it stand out from the expensive, well-tended houses that adjoined it. “Who lived here?” she asked.

  “A man called Arthur Fuller. I went to school with him, or rather your dad did. They were a couple of years below me.”

  “He knew Dad?”

  “Very well. They were mates.”

  “What happened to him?”

  George’s eyes glittered as he started to talk. “He was killed. Walking home one night, late, he saw a girl being attacked by some thug at East Finchley station. Decided he had to have a go, save the girl.” He laughed, the sound bitter in his throat. “Bloody idiot.”

  Emily didn’t quite understand. “Why was he an idiot, if all he did was try to help someone?”

  “The girl was your mother, and Arthur knew her, of course.”

  Emily stared.

  “You look like her, you know,” he said; and tried to touch her hair.

  She flinched.

  George grinned, his teeth bared white in the dark. “You see? You’re just like her.”

  She took a step back, and he gripped her arm tighter.

  “It’s not like she was going out with your dad at the time,” he said. “She was fair game.”

  “Oh, George,” Emily moaned. “You were the thug?”

  “So the papers called me. I just wanted a kiss, that’s all. But she wouldn’t be quiet.”

  “And Arthur heard her? Came to help?”

  George nodded. “I always felt bad that he got hurt. I just pushed him off. I didn’t see the car coming.”

  The smell of Old Holborn surrounded her now, and she felt herself relax. They weren’t on their own any more.

  George took a step towards her, and Emily stiffened. “I want you to tell his story,” he said. “I want people to know he’s still saving people.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Because you feel guilty?”

  George nodded. “That, yes, and because people should know it wasn’t just an accident. He was a good bloke, and he tried to help your mum. Just like he’s still trying to help people.”

  Emily took George’s hand, and peeled his fingers away from her arm, one by one. “I can’t do that,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “Why shouldn’t he get some recognition for what he did?”

  “Because then they’d know what you did,” she said, and saw the realisation dawn in his eyes. “And, even worse, what you nearly did to Mum.”

  George launched himself forward and pushed her towards the busy road.

  She felt herself falling, but was overwhelmed by the scent of pipe tobacco, even as she felt herself being set back on her feet. She stood, gasping, as she saw the cloud darken around her uncle, a smoky figure reaching out for him and drawing him towards the main road. A bus was hurtling up the hill towards them, but she co
uldn’t make a sound – and it was too dark for them to be seen, just yet.

  George was trying hard to break free, but to no avail. As the bus drew close, the cloud solidified, and Emily saw her saviour, hat pulled low over his face, dark coat pulled tight around him. He pushed George down, and both men fell under the oncoming vehicle – brakes squealed, someone screamed, and Emily found herself witnessing everything this time, at close range, as Arthur held him there.

  She saw George’s hand, protruding from underneath the front of the bus – blood trickling towards the kerb. There was no sign of the rest of him. The hand twitched, just once, then was still. A woman who’d been walking up the main road was screaming: scream after scream pealing out, with barely time to breathe between. The bus driver was sitting in his cab, head buried in his hands – the few passengers were staring forward, shock etched on their faces. She could already hear the sirens.

  Emily staggered to the kerb and threw up, and when she looked up, he was there. He smiled at her, and touched his fingers to his hat – an old-world gesture. The smell of Old Holborn caused her stomach to clench, and she vomited again. When she looked up again, he was gone.

  She couldn’t tell the story, she realised. And not because it would ruin her aunt’s life, and her parents’ memory. She couldn’t tell the story because then everyone would know about Arthur – and much as she hated the idea of him continuing his vendetta, she hated even more the idea that he wouldn’t be able to help any more girls daft enough to wander home on their own in dangerous places.

  Such is Life

  Whoever said life is wasted on the young was full of it. It’s wasted on the living. They wander around with their heads firmly up their own whatsits, bemoaning anything and everything whilst convinced they’re invincible. It’s raining. It’s snowing. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. Make your fucking minds up.

  What I wouldn’t give to feel the rain slick against my skin one more time, or to feel a lover’s lips brush against mine.

  I watched a couple just this afternoon. Love’s young dream. He was wandering down the road looking anywhere but at her, while she linked arms with him to keep him from walking ahead and prattled on incessantly in a vain attempt to get his attention. Her face shone with love, and the dumb fuck couldn’t have cared less. All he could think about was what the score was, or how many pints he’d be behind his mates by the time he managed to ditch her and get to the pub. She would have done anything for him. And he couldn’t even see how rare that was, how lucky it made him. He didn’t deserve her.

  I thought back to Helen. I’d been exactly the same with her. At first.

  I wasn’t such a bad guy. People seemed to like me, for the most part. I went through life trying to make things easy on myself, as people do. You know, don’t get too close to anyone, don’t let them hurt you. Don’t hurt them, either. I thought that was the best way.

  Except that wasn’t really thinking, was it? If it was, and if I had, I wouldn’t be here now.

  If you’d met me when I was alive, you wouldn’t have looked at me twice. Most people didn’t. I was a little over average height, about five foot nine, with dark hair cut short (but not too short) and hazel eyes. Loads of people have hazel eyes. I was forty, but could pass for thirty-five on a good day. I was like most other people in that I didn’t like my nose much, or the fact that I could stand to lose about a stone. Nobody’s ever happy with how they look though, are they? If you have straight hair you want curly, and vice versa. The list is endless.

  Her hair was so soft. I remember the feel of it against my neck when she buried her head against my chest.

  I used to get grief from my mum a lot. “When are you going to get married, Mark? When do I get to be a grandmother?” I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.

  I just used to grin at her, and say, “When I meet the right one, Mum. I’ll know when I meet the right one.”

  What I meant was, “I’ll meet the one that’s here right now, and worry about the rest later.” I met a lot of those. Nice enough girls, for the most part. They’d give me the eye and laugh at my jokes, and I’d charm the knickers off them. It wasn’t difficult, and as I say, I never made any promises.

  Shouldn’t that count for something?

  Then I met Helen. She was really nice, I thought, and she seemed to like me too. We got on, as they say. We found out we frequented a lot of the same places, and wondered how we’d never met before. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want to just screw this one. She was too nice. So we dated, taking it slow, and things were good. Good for me, anyway. If she was a bit quiet sometimes, she’d put it down to her time of the month, or a bad day at the office. I never went into too much detail about what she did, or where she did it. Perhaps I should have.

  We must have been dating for about a month before we slept together. Probably the longest time I’d ever been with anyone, whether sex was involved or not. I took her out to dinner, splashed out on a decent restaurant, a nice wine – we had a really good time together. When we got back to my place, it was business as usual to start with. She went to freshen up while I stuck a video on and got a bottle of wine out of the fridge. Then we curled up together on the sofa for a chat, and a bit of a kiss and cuddle, as usual.

  There was something in her eyes that night. They shone. I don’t even remember what we talked about, just her eyes gazing into mine, and the way she kept fiddling with her hair, because that one strand just to the right of her fringe would never sit right. She smelled wonderful.

  Anyway, one thing led to another, and we ended up making love right there on the couch. Then we went to bed and did it again. Life, as they say, was good.

  Things changed after that. Or she did, I’m not sure exactly which way round it was now. All of a sudden she started wanting to plan things. Like where we could go on holiday together, what Sunday did I want to go to her mum’s for tea? What did I want to go to her mum’s for tea for? I was happy as I was. I tried to tell her that, but she just sulked.

  I guess that was when I started to change. I pulled away a bit. I was scared, see. Life was fine as it was; we were both adults, happy in each other’s company. What did we have to get all serious for?

  So anyway, we’d been going out for about three months, sleeping together for the last two, and trying to pretend that nothing had changed. Then one Friday night I called round at Helen’s a bit early, and saw a bloke leaving the house. He was in a hurry, and kept looking all round him as he rushed off down the street. I saw the net curtains twitch, and realised Helen was watching him leave

  I hung around for a few minutes, then walked slowly up the front path and rang the doorbell. Helen appeared looking flushed, and she’d misbuttoned her top. Her chest was all mottled pink, the way it got when things heated up, and her lips looked swollen.

  “Who was that, Helen?”

  “Who?”

  All bright and false, her voice was, and I could hear the panic in it.

  “The guy that just rushed off down the road. He came from here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mark. What on earth would some man be doing here?” Her voice shook a bit, and she seemed scared, which was fine by me.

  I shouldered my way into the house, and a part of me felt triumphant when she shrank back. I kept my voice low and quiet. “I don’t know, love. I was hoping you’d tell me.” I grinned.

  I never saw that bloke again after that, and I watched out for him. Helen was back to normal within two or three days, and the bruises were almost gone by the end of the week. I noticed she’d given up trying to organise me, too, and congratulated myself on figuring out what I’d needed to do. I told myself it was her fault; she’d pushed me into it.

  What did I know?

  Time passed, we moved in together, and Helen faded into the woodwork. I told myself it meant she was contented. I went to work, I came home, I put the money on the table. On a Saturday I’d give her one, thinking all the time of the new barmaid at The Duke’s Head. If
I closed my eyes, I could even pretend it was her. Helen seemed happy with that. If she was acting, I didn’t notice.

  I’m beginning to realise I didn’t notice much.

  About six months after the first time I’d had to put Helen straight, I met a girl at the supermarket. There I was, minding my own business in the cigarette queue, when suddenly I knew, just knew, there was someone looking straight at me. I looked up, ready to have a…disagreement, shall we say. And it was her. It was Sarah, the barmaid I’ve already told you about. She was dressed the same as usual, short tight t-shirt and leggings. Great big hoop earrings and short, spiky hair finished the ensemble.

  She grinned, easily shifting her gum to her cheek as she did so. “Morning.”

  I grinned back, exuding what I hoped was an easy charm, but was probably just a leer. “Morning.” I nodded at the kiosk in front of us. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  She moved closer, leaned in before whispering: “I’d fancy seeing you anywhere.” She moved back, raised an eyebrow – waiting for an answer.

  Just for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Thoughts of Helen flitted through my mind, but quickly disappeared. This was new, this was exciting – unlike Helen. A hint of danger danced in Sarah’s eyes, along with the promise of an evening I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. I opened my mouth to speak, and shut it quickly when all that emerged was a croak. I grimaced, smiled, cleared my throat and tried again. “How about tonight?”

  She nodded, smiling broadly now. “After work, okay?”

  “Sure, I’ll be in around nine, half past.”

  “’Kay.” A quick kiss on the cheek and she was gone, leaving me watching her hips swing saucily away from me, out of the shop and into my imagination.

  Several hours and a row with Helen later, I was sidling onto a barstool, watching as Sarah fended off over-eager punters. She saw me, and her smile flashed white in the darkness, even as she took care of business. I nodded, and waited. Sure enough, a moment or two later a glass was slammed onto the bar in front of me and Sarah proceeded to pour a very large measure of Jack Daniels into it. I took out my wallet, frowning, and was delighted when she whispered, “On the house.” She glanced sideways down the bar, where the manager was arguing with a belligerent customer that looked as if he’d already had far more than one too many. “Just don’t let Charlie see.”