The Day Henry Died: A supernatural romance

by Lynda Renham

  ‘He’s happy for me to work part time but …’

  ‘He wants to keep you shackled to the kitchen sink you mean.’

  ‘No,’ said Henry hotly. Although he supposed that wasn’t far from the truth. He had wanted Imogen home when he got in from work.

  ‘Henry said a full-time job would change our lives dramatically.’

  ‘Yes, quite right,’ said Henry.

  ‘I thought you wanted it,’ said Alice petulantly.

  ‘Oh, I do, so much but … Henry can be difficult.’

  Difficult, thought Henry. When have I been difficult?

  ‘I’ve been silly Alice,’ she said wearily falling into one of their garden chairs. ‘I’ve deceived Henry but only because I wanted to make him happy. He thinks I’m content working part time. That I never wanted a family and that a sparkling home is my dream too. Except I’m going mad Alice, because some days I just want to be me.’

  ‘Be you?’ said Henry confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You should take the job then Imogen,’ Alice said firmly.

  ‘It will come between us, don’t you see?’

  ‘You’ll just grow resentful, you realise that?’

  ‘I’ll be alright,’ Imogen smiled weakly.

  ‘I’m back,’ yelled a voice.

  Henry turned to see himself walk through the kitchen and out onto the patio. I’ve gained weight thought Henry. Those tennis shorts don’t fit me any more.

  ‘Henry,’ said Alice acidly.

  ‘How are you Alice?’ Henry smiled. Before she could answer he added, ‘I won. Jack isn’t too happy you can imagine.’

  He laughed heartily.

  ‘He had to buy me a drink. That hurt him.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Alice. ‘I’m just about to leave I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Imogen, touching her arm.

  I was rude, Henry thought.

  ‘Perhaps we should have talked more about that job, Imogen,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ Imogen said, and they walked to the front door. Henry followed them.

  ‘Talk to Henry for goodness’ sake. Tell him the job is important to you,’ said Alice earnestly. ‘I really want you, Imogen. No one can do the job as well as you.’

  ‘He doesn’t understand,’ said Imogen sadly.

  Henry with a jolt realised that Imogen had been quite right. He hadn’t understood. It seemed he hadn’t understood a lot of things.

  ‘I thought you were happy at home,’ he said.

  He looked back to the Henry of that day who sat smug-faced at the garden table with a glass of wine in his hand. How could he have been so blind?

  ‘There’s none so blind as those that will not see,’ was one of his mother’s favourite sayings. Did he deliberately not see? Had it suited him? He watched Imogen close the front door and lean against it for a moment. A feeling of resentment overcame him. Why hadn’t she been stronger? He’d loved her enough. Why hadn’t she stood up to him? If she’d wanted children he would have acquiesced. It may have taken a while, but he would have come round. He felt certain of that. He’d wanted them both to be happy. Of course he liked her to be home. He would have found it difficult if she had earnt as much as him. A blow to his masculinity that would have been, but all the same they should have talked about it more. He never wanted a weak wife. He watched as she joined the smug Henry in the garden.

  ‘She seemed a bit off with me,’ said Henry.

  Imogen shrugged.

  ‘She’s a little upset that I didn’t take the job of manager.’

  ‘Ah,’ nodded Henry. ‘I’m sure she’ll get over it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Imogen.

  ‘You don’t mind do you?’

  ‘Mind?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘Not taking the job?’

  There, thought Henry. I did ask her.

  ‘No. I don’t mind,’ she answered.

  A lie, thought Henry. It seemed there had been many lies. He shivered as the sun went in and it was quickly dark again. Drops of rain fell onto his head and he hurriedly pulled on his coat. Imogen looked up at the sky, sighed and then went back into the house where Cynthia and Faye were waiting.

  ‘Are you alright to carry on, dear?’ asked Cynthia.

  Henry could see that Cynthia was very keen to carry on.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Imogen reluctantly. ‘It is upsetting me though.’

  She sat on the floor next to Faye. She kept the wine glass in one hand and placed the fingers of the other onto the planchette. Henry was bored now and figured it was about time to leave. He’d told Rita he would see her at nine. All the same, thought Henry. I’m here now. It would be stupid not to give it a try. He also placed his hands on the planchette and when Faye asked again if anyone was there, he answered yes. It was easier the second time around.

  ‘Tell us your name,’ asked Faye.

  Cynthia seemed barely able to breathe and Henry hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to upset Imogen too much, but he needed to make contact.

  Slowly he moved the planchette. He was feeling rather tired from doing it. It seemed to need all his energy.

  The planchette moved to H and then E. Everyone stared in fascinated shock. Henry fancied he could hear their racing hearts.

  He thought it would take all night to get a message across if he had to do one letter at a time. They’d still be there this time tomorrow. He really wanted to tell them that he wasn’t dead, at least, not really. He pushed the planchette to Y and fell back exhausted.

  ‘Henry,’ cried Cynthia. ‘Henry, it’s Cynthia here with Imogen.’

  She still treats me like a fool, thought Henry.

  Imogen swallowed some wine, her wide eyes not leaving the planchette.

  ‘Do you have something to tell us, Henry?’ asked Faye.

  Henry placed his weary fingers onto the planchette again. Imogen seemed frozen to the spot.

  ‘I wish John was here,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘N O T,’ called out Faye as if the others could not see or read. ‘D E A D’

  Imogen gasped.

  ‘Stop it,’ she cried, pulling her hand back as if it had been burnt. ‘Stop it now, Faye. Henry is dead. Everyone knows he is dead.’

  Faye looked shaken.

  ‘I’m honestly not doing anything.’

  ‘Look,’ cried Cynthia. ‘It’s moving again, and I’ve taken my hand away.’

  Henry found it more difficult now that Cynthia and Imogen had moved their fingers. Faye obviously not wanting to be seen to be doing it alone also removed her fingers. Henry struggled to move it on his own, but it was too difficult.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Cynthia.

  ‘Not dead,’ repeated Faye and then gasped. ‘Oh dear, perhaps he’s stuck. I’ve heard of that.’

  She bit her lips the minute the words had left them.

  ‘Stuck where?’ asked Cynthia.

  Imogen screamed and scrambled back on the floor, her hands unable to move as fast as her feet.

  ‘Get rid of it,’ she shouted. ‘Get it out of my house. Of course he isn’t stuck.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Cynthia. ‘Henry isn’t stuck. This is horrible, quite horrible.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Faye, still shaking. She packed up the board and planchette and quickly pushed it back into her bag.

  Cynthia tried to calm Imogen, but she was inconsolable.

  ‘Is he here? Is he really here?’ she said, her head turning in all directions.

  Henry was weary. This wasn’t the reaction he had hoped for. He thought Imogen would phone the police.

  ‘I thought you would remove all spirits,’ Imogen yelled.

  ‘I think you need a priest,’ said Faye quietly.

  ‘A priest?’ repeated Henry. ‘I’m not the devil.’

  Imogen let out a tiny sob.

  ‘I never thought she’d be like this,’ said Cynthia worriedly. ‘I should phone my husband.’

  ‘What does he mean
though, not dead?’ asked Faye cautiously.

  Oh, good, thought Henry, someone with sense enough to ask a question. Imogen filled her glass with wine and took a long gulp.

  ‘It’s not Henry,’ she said sharply. ‘How dare you come to my house and say all these things.’

  ‘It’s upset her,’ explained Cynthia. ‘I’d better phone John.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The wind rattled the windows and blew sheets of rain against the panes.

  ‘I’m chilled to the bone,’ said Cynthia. ‘There must be a draught somewhere.’

  Imogen sat with a throw around her shoulders, her legs tucked beneath her. She shot Faye a look.

  If daggers could kill, thought Henry.

  ‘It’s not true what you said.’ She wiped roughly at her tears with a tissue.

  Cynthia nuzzled her hair.

  ‘Let me turn the heating up.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have come,’ said Faye, hurriedly packing away her things.

  ‘I’ve never seen Imogen this distressed,’ said Cynthia worriedly.

  Faye stared at the stack of coasters on the coffee table.

  ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ she offered.

  Imogen shook her head.

  ‘Shall I help you to move that back?’ Cynthia pointed at the coffee table.

  ‘I can take one end,’ offered Faye.

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ said Imogen.

  ‘It’s alright darling,’ soothed Cynthia.

  ‘Can you sense him?’ Imogen scanned the room, her eyes wild.

  ‘No, darling, I can’t.’

  Henry noticed that Faye kept quiet.

  Imogen reached down for the bottle of wine.

  ‘Do you think you should dear?’ asked Cynthia. ‘It’s a depressant, you know.’

  Imogen continued to cry.

  ‘Not more tears Imogen,’ said Cynthia with a sigh. ‘You’ll make yourself ill.’

  Imogen stood up abruptly.

  ‘I’m going to bed. I need to rest.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cynthia surprised. ‘I’ll get your father to bring my night things.’

  ‘I want to be alone, Mum,’ Imogen said firmly.

  Cynthia struggled not to show her disappointment.

  ‘What, after tonight?’ she said, surprised.

  Imogen nodded.

  ‘Darling, I don’t think …’

  ‘I’m an adult, stop telling me what to do and what to think,’ Imogen snapped.

  Henry watched the confrontation with interest. This was a different Imogen to the one he knew. Cynthia stood up, a pained expression on her face.

  ‘Alright, but if you need us you know where we are.’

  Imogen nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit stressed,’ she said, squeezing her mother’s arm.

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Cynthia walking to the door. ‘Try to rest.’

  Faye clutched her bag and followed Cynthia.

  ‘Hey, wait,’ called Henry.

  He had to stick with the psychic. It had been the most progress he’d made so far. The front door slammed and there was silence. Imogen poured the remaining wine into her glass and looked around nervously.

  ‘Henry,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m here love,’ he said, knowing full well she couldn’t hear him. She listened intently and then with a small sob, wrapped herself in the blanket and huddled in the corner of the couch.

  *

  Faye sat in her car for quite some time after leaving Imogen’s house. Henry started to wonder if she was going to sleep there. The car certainly gave the impression of being well used. He’d noted one bald tyre and a fair amount of rust. It certainly wasn’t in danger of being stolen. He couldn’t fathom what Faye was waiting for. Unless the dilapidated Golf needed a certain amount of time before one attempted to start the engine. No good as a getaway car, thought Henry and he chuckled at his own joke. He got into the back seat and concentrated really hard on trying to connect with her, but it was hopeless. She gave no sign whatsoever of being aware of him. Her face was pinched and anxious. The evening had shaken all of them a great deal.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she murmured, looking up at the house. ‘I don’t know what to do. Twenty-five pounds is twenty-five pounds after all.’

  ‘Ha,’ laughed Henry. ‘So that’s what’s holding you up.’

  Faye couldn’t decide whether to go back and ask for payment. He could understand her dilemma. If she knocked and asked for it, she’d seem at the very least cheeky, considering she didn’t actually do very much or at the very most, cold and heartless after causing such an upset. It was a difficult one, Henry could see that. He only hoped Cynthia was paying. He’d be very cross indeed if Imogen spent twenty-five pounds on such nonsense, when there were so many other things to spend it on.

  Much to Henry’s relief Faye started the engine. He had no idea where they were going but he didn’t want to let Faye out of his sight. Not just yet. He glanced at the rubbish on the back seat and grimaced. He didn’t own a car but if he did, it most certainly wouldn’t look like this. Empty crisp packets littered the seat and crumpled KitKat wrappers had been stuffed into a carrier bag. Henry wondered how Faye could stay so slim. A half-empty bottle of Lucozade rocked back and forth on the shelf behind him. He expected it to explode at any moment. The journey was short and accompanied by a debate on Radio 4. The volume was too low for Henry to hear what the debate was about but those involved got quite heated and Henry wished Faye would turn up the volume.

  Faye took a slip road and Henry spotted Rita’s house and wondered what the time was. They turned into a lane and slowed. The sign outside the house said ‘Rectory’ and Henry sighed. The last person he expected to seek help from was God.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Reverend Paul Ryan was flicking through the TV Times trying to decide what rubbish he could watch on their new plasma TV screen. It gave him the opportunity to escape the real world for a short time. His wife, Miriam, was relaxing in the bath with the latest Jilly Cooper and a box of Milk Tray, courtesy of Mrs Brewer who had been brimming over with gratitude at the wonderful words Reverend Ryan had spoken at her husband’s memorial service. Miriam Ryan benefitted much from her husband’s grateful congregation. It didn’t do much for her weight though, which Paul watched in despair and Miriam ignored. ‘What can I do?’ she would say, forcing exasperation. ‘It would be plain rude to throw the gifts away.’ Paul had suggested the local hospital, but Miriam had scoffed. ‘That wouldn’t show us to be very grateful.’ Paul thought it would show them quite charitable and would do wonders for Miriam’s expanding waistline which was seriously affecting Paul’s space in their bed. Gratitude came in the guise of roses, homemade cake, boxes of chocolates, and occasionally, but only occasionally, a basket of fruit, Paul would protest.

  ‘It’s my job,’ he’d smile. ‘There’s absolutely no need for gifts.’

  So, instead of rewarding him, they did the next best thing and rewarded his dutiful wife, who spent most of her days gardening, reading and eating chocolates of gratitude, and growing bigger by the day. Her hips were a testament to how good a vicar her husband was. Paul Ryan’s grateful congregants could see the evidence of their generosity in the mounds of fat that hung from Miriam’s arms and wobbled at her waist. Yes, his congregation were very generous indeed. If only they’d show their generosity in the church collection plate rather than dropping it into his eager wife’s mouth.

  He settled back to watch a nature programme, which he felt certain he’d seen before, when the doorbell rang. He frowned and looked at the clock on the overstuffed mantelpiece. It was almost nine. His heart sank. He’d been hoping for an early night. He clicked off the new plasma TV screen, pulled on a warm considerate expression and walked into the hall. A woman’s hunched figure could be seen through the frosted glass door window. Reverend Paul Ryan sighed. Women were the worst. They always took an age to get to the point.

  *

 
Faye sat in her car for ages and Henry feared that someone may report her for stalking. Henry’s throat was dry. He’d meant to get some water before leaving but was so keen to keep up with Faye that he forgot. Faye climbed from the car, her hands tightly clenched. Nervously she rang the doorbell.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said and turned to leave.

  ‘But you’ve rung the doorbell,’ said Henry.

  The door opened and a man wearing a dog collar stood in front of them. His hair was ruffled and his shirt hanging outside his trousers. Henry wondered if he’d been about to get into bed. He gave them a welcoming smile.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour,’ Faye said. Henry wondered just how late it was.

  ‘That’s alright. I was just about to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Ryan,’ said Faye.

  ‘Do you recognise me?’ she asked.

  ‘And can you see me?’ added Henry.

  ‘It’s Faye, isn’t it? You did the flowers on Sunday.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes, I did. There’s something worrying me.’

  ‘Well, come in,’ he opened the door wider so she could step inside.

  Henry followed. He’d never been inside a rectory before. Well, if you came to think about it there had been no reason for him too. His feet stepped onto creaking floorboards. They followed the reverend into a large lounge lined with dark oak panels. Henry immediately felt the heat from the dying embers of a fire and edged his way towards it.

  ‘I’ll get the tea,’ said Reverend Ryan pointing to a rumpled sofa for Faye to sit down.

  She sank into it and stretched her feet towards the fire. The sound of footsteps above startled her. Faye looked up at the massive wooden beams.

  ‘Mrs Ryan,’ she said as though she knew Henry was sitting beside her. The door opened and the vicar returned with a tray.

  ‘Tea,’ he smiled.

  ‘I feel stupid,’ she blurted.

  ‘Stupid, why on earth would you feel stupid?’ he asked, pouring the tea into flowery china cups.

  Faye bowed her head.

  ‘I have psychic powers you see.’