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No Fake Bats by Cathal Gallagher 285 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0715; ISBN 1-4120-2887-6; US$20.50, C$23.20, EUR17.00, £12.00 When the aged missing horror legend Lenyard Brock is kidnapped, the kidnappers find themselves submerged in the otherworld of painted dusks, wretched devilry and comely maidens.
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About the Book
Lenyard Brock was a legend of sixties cult horror. His androgynous presence graced a hundred plastic nights and cardboard coffins; his gaunt pale beauty lusted after, by legions of buxom vampires and painted damsels. Then at his peak, he retreated from film and ultimately even the world about him to live inside his own devastating schizophrenia.
Forty years later an aged recluse who claims to be the ex-actor is apparently kidnapped in Ireland. From the rotted derelict attic he's imprisoned in, Brock manages to drug and hypnotise his kidnappers.
What follows is a terrifying series of badly scripted hallucinations and events, which ultimately reveal the actual truth of the old man's real identity and causes behind his consuming madness.
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About the Author
Cathal Gallagher is thirty-three years old and lives in Athlone with his wife Ursula. He has always had a healthy interest in reading all sorts of fiction and unusual biographies. He wanted to write a fictional biography of a character whose life was spent acting as someone else, so a cult horror actor seemed like a funny idea.
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Sample Excerpts
ONE
As a means of killing himself off once and for all, Brock had decided absorbing another identity was no longer acceptable. In the three decades since his spectacular fall from acting fame, he'd been unsuccessful in shaking that particular life. To this end he'd come to the reluctant decision to take a step further back into the skin of his own life, the longtime discarded Peter Stewart, the one he was born into and the one he'd left, to become Lenyard Brock. Bizarrely, for no more substantial a reason than the fact that he was a missing property heir he'd seen that first life become cemented in the infamy of local lore where a distant reality vaguely resembled the dark legend which took it's place. It was not the same Peter Stewart he was going to return to, but it was a start.
Every now and then brief glimpses of memories bore the supposed reasons for Brock's complete and utter insanity but since he was, irredeemably mad he could not be sure that they were merely the imaginings of some fractured persona living within him. Consequently the causes and therefore the cure eluded him, leaving his logical perceptions of sight and sound to guide and ultimately remind him that he was in fact really there, flesh and blood and not an imagining himself, something he often thought.
What was once a raven black fringe stabbing down upon a bleach white, fine-boned face bejeweled by furiously cold blue eyes, was now a streaked white wave tugged back from a dramatically lined appearance, which time had mapped, four decades from the sixties. Thin slashes ebbed and flowed beneath heavy furrows which rose toward mounds and although elements of what defined that once smoothly sculpted face remained so that it's original owner was still discernible, these valleys around sockets and cheeks had gently fallen, leaving a visual indication of times gone by.
From behind hooded lids the blue of his eyes glittered but nothing of the almost feral instinct of youth still burned. There was a gentle misted quiet and reflective glow, which now and then dilated to something of their former glory, a fleeting wisp of attention which even an angel fallen from the highest peak to which it aspired, could muster.
Flecks of grey lined through a thick black moustache dimmed to a soot fathomless dark, which could linger long after the pure shine of sleek colored temples had succumbed to a snow white. It dramatically illustrated the concealed mouth bowed downward by the rigid tug of flesh enticing a prominent chin toward a lightly stubbled neck splayed out from the cold clean bordered shirt of the man's immaculate suit.
"Jaaz, yer up with the lark this mornin' Mr. Brock!", Tracy Moran said cheerily from behind the fully stocked multicolored counter of Moran's as a happy bell clinked above his head.
Catalogue Information
