The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  It had been a hot day. Henry recalled worrying about the sun burning his scalp. He’d just begun to lose his hair and had been aware of a tiny bald patch. He was always meaning to get a hat. One of those weaved ambassador hats that Jack wore. They’d look like the characters from Brideshead Revisited. He remembered spending most of that day trying to protect his scalp. He hadn’t wanted a sunburnt bald patch by the time the day was over. That would be cancer-inducing for sure. Jack had walked ahead with Jenny, one arm around her shoulders and the other swinging a picnic basket. Henry carried the blanket, and Imogen their tennis racquets. He’d felt happy, he remembered that.

  *

  ‘Ooh,’ squealed Jenny, ‘can we take a boat out?’

  ‘Sure,’ laughed Jack, his arm lazily drifting from Jenny’s shoulder to her breast. Henry had looked away, embarrassed.

  Henry felt he ought to show some affection to Imogen too. Public affection wasn’t something Henry really approved of. Other people didn’t want to see you kissing and cuddling. It was embarrassing. He held his hand out to Imogen and she slipped hers easily into it.

  ‘Do you think we’ll get a court?’ Jack said, hopefully.

  They found a quiet spot and Henry spread out the blanket. He decided to sit under a tree so his scalp wouldn’t get burnt. Jenny opened the picnic basket and gleefully removed a bottle of rosé wine. Henry studied the label critically.

  ‘It’s not a fancy bottle like you would get,’ said Jack with a chuckle. ‘But it will do the trick.’

  ‘We’ve got beers, too,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Not too much booze before a match,’ laughed Jack. ‘We won’t be able to see the ball.’

  It was the perfect day for a picnic. There was just a faint breeze. The air buzzed with the drone of bees and Imogen lifted her face to the sun and sighed. Jenny and Jack laid out sandwiches, cheese, bread, cold meats, chocolate, and cake.

  ‘There’s plenty of fresh fruit,’ said Jenny, opening a Tupperware box of strawberries.

  Imogen lifted her leg and laid it across Henry’s thigh.

  ‘It will be nice to take out a boat, won’t it Henry?’

  Henry nodded. It would be hot too, he thought. Hot on his scalp.

  Jack crunched on some celery and said.

  ‘It’ll be a hoot.’

  ‘They have life jackets, don’t they?’ asked Jenny. ‘Only, I can’t swim.’

  ‘You’ll be alright if Henry is with us,’ smiled Imogen. ‘Henry is an excellent swimmer.’

  Those words stood out more than any other did for Henry. Even Imogen had considered him an excellent swimmer. He’d always been expert in the water. He’d been a lifeguard at the pool in his younger days. There was no way I would ever drown, Henry thought. It was unthinkable.

  ‘That’s not how I would have died,’ he said aloud.

  He wearily pulled his body up from the bench and leant down to pick up some stones from the grassy verge, before skimming them into the river. He watched as they skipped across the surface of the water and wondered how long he would have to wander about like this before someone came to take him to wherever he ought to go. It even occurred to him that perhaps he was in one of Derren Brown’s illusions. Maybe, he was on television right now. Most likely, Imogen and Rita were watching, both wondering how it would all end. He rather thought Derren Brown was taking things a bit too far. Two whole days was far too long. He’d certainly complain about this. Then again, he’d never agreed to go on Derren Brown’s show had he? Unless Derren Brown had erased that from his memory, but surely they couldn’t do that without your permission. Anyway, Henry believed that he wasn’t that gullible, which could only mean, he had to be dead and that he was in some kind of transition from this world to the next. All the same, thought Henry, that doesn’t explain why Rita can see him.

  A woman pushing a stroller was walking towards him. It reminded Henry of Imogen’s miscarriage and it was like a heavy weight on his heart. He sat beside the woman on the bench and smiled at the child who lay sleeping in the buggy. Had he been wrong? Would children have been a blessing and not a stain on their perfect existence, which, of course, Henry now realised, had not been perfect at all. A quick glance at the woman’s watch told Henry it was twelve thirty. In half an hour, Rita would be here. He ought to walk to the entrance and meet her. He knew, for certain, that Rita would be on time.

  *

  Rita wasn’t just on time she was five minutes early. She was hoping they would be able to have lunch at Pansies. She glanced in the window of the teashop to see how busy they were. She should have known it would be packed with lunchtime diners. Still, thought Rita, by the time she and Henry walked back from the park there were bound to be some free tables. Her eyes landed on a couple sitting by the window. The woman’s face was familiar. Rita gasped. It was Henry’s wife, Imogen. For a moment, Rita was too scared to look at the man sitting opposite her. Henry must have sorted the dead thing after all. With a sinking heart, she realised that he wouldn’t be at the park as they’d agreed. Rita felt bereft, as though someone close to her had just died, when, in fact, Henry had become alive again. She should be happy for him. But instead, it felt like a cold glove had encased her heart. Life would now go back to the way it had been and Rita didn’t think she could stand that.

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ she whispered forcing her eyes to look at him.

  She saw the hands first. Henry’s strong manly fingers were lying close to Imogen’s hand. A lump formed in Rita’s throat and she felt sure she would choke and die right there, outside Pansies, looking through the window at the man she could have loved and she thought maybe this is a good way to die. She finally lifted her eyes to his face and her mouth opened in surprise. Her lips tightened in anger. That wasn’t Henry. Any sense of relief Rita might have felt was immediately overtaken by the anger she felt towards Imogen. How could she, and so soon after Henry’s death?

  ‘Huh,’ uttered Rita.

  This had been going on long before Henry’s death, of that Rita felt sure. The man looked familiar too. Perhaps he’d been into the store and sampled her wares. She hoped that next time they would choke him. Rita then recalled where she had seen the man before. It had been at Henry’s funeral. He’d looked at Imogen in a strange way then, she remembered.

  Oh, poor Henry, thought Rita. She ought to give Imogen a piece of her mind. March into Pansies and say loudly,

  ‘Is this how a grieving widow behaves?’

  The waitress would give Imogen disgusted looks and the other diners would avert their eyes, not wanting to see the widow who had deceived her husband.

  ‘Adulterer,’ Rita would hiss.

  The man wasn’t anywhere near as handsome as Henry. In fact, Rita didn’t much like the look of him at all. Her feet itched to go into the tearoom and her tongue tingled with the unspoken words she wanted to throw at Imogen. Instead, she turned and walked to the park, frustrated tears struggling to break free. Henry was waiting at the entrance and Rita broke into a run. She was now late, thanks to horrible Imogen. Henry saw her and gave a relieved smile.

  ‘I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,’ he said.

  Should I tell him what I’ve just seen, Rita wondered.

  ‘How long have you got?’ Henry asked.

  ‘An hour, well, a bit less now,’ she said, looking at the time on her phone.

  ‘Shall we take a walk? Helps to clear the mind,’ said Henry.

  ‘Yes, I could do with my head clearing,’ she said.

  He had such a lovely soft voice, thought Rita; warm and velvety. She didn’t imagine the man holding Imogen’s hand in Pansies had such a lovely voice. He looked common and rough.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said and wondered how she could tell Henry about Imogen and the man.

  The park covered a wide area and was hilly in places. There were benches for people to sit in every corner and jogging tracks were all around the edges of the park. Henry had thought about running, in fact, he’d even looked up some a
pps on his phone. Bit late now, he thought cynically. The park swings were quiet. The children were back at school. It would have been so nice to relax here, thought Rita, if only this bad thing wasn’t happening to Henry.

  ‘I’ve been back to the house,’ he said.

  Rita’s mother often said that.

  ‘Have you been back to the house?’ she’d say, not once but several times.

  ‘Did you see your father?’

  ‘Man of God,’ the papers had called him. ‘Caring father and loving husband who had been struck down in his prime leaving a grieving widow and young daughter.’ She never corrected them. What had been the point? Of course, the newspapers never reported her mother’s breakdown, or her psychotic episodes.

  ‘Father’s dead,’ she’d remind her.

  That’s when the screaming usually started.

  ‘He’s here,’ she’d scream in the blackness of night. ‘He’s come to punish us.’

  They’d had no choice but to put her in a clinic. Rita had tried to protect her, but it got too difficult.

  ‘For her safety and yours,’ the new minister had said with a solemn expression on his face.

  Rita had her pick of the church community. Everyone wanted to take in the daughter of their beloved leader. She chose Grace and Phil. They’d had two other children so they wouldn’t dote on her too much. A year later she left and found her own place. The farm was handed over to the new minister and Rita never went back. Sometimes her mother remembered her and other times she didn’t. Rita preferred it when she didn’t. There would be horrific screams when she did remember, and Rita had awful visions that her mother might one day betray her.

  ‘You’re wicked, wicked,’ she’d yell, and Rita would cringe as the nurses came rushing in.

  ‘I think she’s delusional again,’ Rita would say softly. ‘It’s best I go.’

  The nurses paid little attention. In that place, time was marked by the coming of meals and the medication. Rita would escape for a few minutes to fetch a drink, passing the inmates in the corridors, their expressions wiped clean by the medication and always there were the violent patients to avoid, or those that harboured grudges for obscure reasons.

  ‘I couldn’t have drowned,’ said Henry, interrupting her thoughts. ‘I’m as strong as an ox.’

  They both looked towards the river.

  ‘I’m an excellent swimmer. I’m also very proficient at boating,’ he boasted.

  Rita wondered what Henry could have died from if it wasn’t from drowning.

  ‘Imogen isn’t a strong swimmer,’ said Henry. ‘Not everyone is.’

  Rita couldn’t swim at all, but she didn’t want to tell Henry that.

  Rita was torn. At the mention of Imogen’s name, she remembered again what she had seen in the teashop. She really should tell Henry. Then again, she argued, what was the point? He was dead, after all. It would only upset him even more.

  ‘Something isn’t right,’ muttered Henry.

  ‘It just isn’t possible,’ he continued, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Someone has got it wrong.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘There’s a bench,’ said Henry.

  They sat side by side on the bench overlooking the play area. Rita felt quite depressed. Finally, she had a handsome companion. Not only handsome but also distinguished and no one else could see him. Rita thought that there couldn’t be anything more depressing than that.

  Henry glanced sideways and found himself wondering what Rita would look like naked. Her breasts were small but firm, he noted.

  ‘Imogen is having an affair with our roofer,’ Henry said suddenly. ‘His name is Jim,’ he added scathingly.

  Rita thought she’d misheard him but when she looked at his face and saw the distress in his eyes, she knew she hadn’t. Her hand reached out to his just as the roofer’s had to Imogen’s. He took hers eagerly in his and she said, ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’ questioned Henry. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They were in Pansies earlier. I walked past to see how busy it was, and I saw them.’

  Henry’s hand was hot in hers. She wanted her hand to stay there forever. If only the other people walking in the park could see them. ‘Look at those lovers,’ they’d say. ‘They can’t take their eyes off each other.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  He withdrew his hand from Rita’s reluctantly. It felt comforting to touch her. Or, maybe it was just comforting to touch somebody. Rita was lovely, not like Ray, the stupid milkman or Jim that scruffy, good for nothing. Or that awful chap, Billy, that Rita talked about. Always people, Henry thought, his jaw tightening; it was always people that ruined your life. It could be wonderful, joyful, full of pleasure, if it wasn’t for other people. Now he came to think of it, people were the bane of his life. Take Imogen’s parents for example. He had to fight back a scoff as he thought about them. Not once had they visited Henry and Imogen for Sunday lunch without leaving Henry with a heavy stomach and terrible indigestion. John would always make a negative comment about the garden.

  ‘I wouldn’t grow those runner beans there,’ he’d criticise. ‘A haven for snails, that is.’

  Then, there was his mother-in-law, who consistently tidied their kitchen and emptied their dishwasher. Henry would cringe as her hands wandered amongst their things.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Imogen would say but it mattered to Henry. It meant his nice peaceful Sunday was unsettled by their annoying visits.

  Even his leisure time was tarnished by Jack, who regularly ruined their game of tennis by smoking at least two cigarettes after their game. Irritatingly, and selfishly blowing smoke towards Henry, whose nostrils rejected it with great vigour, causing him to sneeze dramatically. Work could have been more bearable too, if only Helen had made an effort to say good morning and Sam and the other chaps hadn’t talked ad nauseam about wrestling, a sport that made Henry’s stomach churn. He couldn’t look at those fat, sweaty men rolling around and grunting like pigs. Now, to top it all, Imogen had well and truly fractured their marriage with this absurd affair and with a roofer of all things. Good heavens, thought Henry. How embarrassing for him if anyone ever found out. It was difficult, Henry thought, in fact practically impossible to find people with the same intelligence and ideals that he had. There was absolutely no one at work. He idly wondered if the new chap, Matt, also liked wrestling.

  ‘I should walk you back,’ said Henry.

  ‘It must have been a shock,’ said Rita, ‘when you found out about Imogen.’

  ‘Yes it was. I really don’t understand it,’ said Henry.

  It had been a shock. In fact, it had made Henry feel very inadequate indeed.

  ‘She was very lucky to have had you,’ said Rita, looking at him admiringly and realised with a jolt that she had used the past tense.

  They walked slowly to the supermarket, stopping for a few minutes to listen to a busker singing a song about broken hearts and illicit love.

  ‘I have to get this sorted,’ said Henry, frowning. ‘I can’t go on like this every day. Do you see other dead people?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I do, they haven’t told me they’re dead, like you did.’

  ‘I’m hoping if I keep going into the wardrobe, that maybe I’ll see what happened to me. Then, perhaps I can put things right.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rita, who thought it quite odd that Henry went into the wardrobe and claimed he went back in time.

  ‘I hope you discover how you died,’ said Rita looking up at the sky. ‘I think it’s going to rain again.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Henry who felt it did nothing but rain. They’d reached the supermarket and Henry knew that in a few moments he would be alone again.

  ‘I’ll come and see you tonight, shall I?’ he asked boldly.

  Rita looked suddenly uncomfortable. She hadn’t anticipated Henry coming to the bedsit again. What if Billy heard her talking to him?

  ‘What time do you think?’
>
  Henry had no idea what time. It really depended on how long he was in the wardrobe.

  ‘How about nine?’ asked Henry, thinking he would be desperate for company by then.

  ‘Okay,’ said Rita.

  ‘See you later,’ said Henry, who considered kissing her cheek but then changed his mind. Henry didn’t approve of public displays of affection. Not that anyone would see him, of course, but all the same.

  ‘I hope you learn how you died when you visit the wardrobe,’ said Rita. ‘And that you’re able to put everything right.’ Although Rita felt quite certain that if Henry did get to put things right, everything would then change between them.

  ‘I think I know how I died,’ said Henry.

  ‘You do?’ exclaimed Rita.

  ‘I think I must have been murdered,’ said Henry.

  *

  ‘Murdered?’ exclaimed Rita, almost stuttering over the word.

  Her body broke out in a cold sweat. Who would murder Henry? She couldn’t imagine for one minute that he had a single enemy. Rita wished Henry hadn’t mentioned murder. It had caused her to feel quite faint.

  Henry gave a small nod of triumph.

  ‘I am in excellent health. My heart and blood pressure are sound. I would never drown. That’s just impossible. The mole on my chest the doctor said wasn’t suspicious, and that was just a few months ago and …’

  ‘But Ray …’

  ‘Huh, what does he know?’ mocked Henry.

  ‘Can you not remember?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I just woke up dead. At least I think I’m supposed to be dead.’

  He sighed. ‘I’m getting weary of it now.’

  Rita didn’t want to think of the river and its cold murky water stealing the air from Henry. She could almost taste the water, foul and unclean; his mind losing focus faster than a child at a fun fair. Only for Henry there was no fun, only fear. Fear of that unknown assailant who had ended his life.

  ‘Someone drowned you?’ said Rita.

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry with certainty. ‘The question is who?’